The Remains
by I-Write-What-I-Want-To
Summary: An ugly story from the perspective of the sick, lazy, and untalented war boys that survive the events of the film. Mediocre. All of em. They are the remains of Immortan Joe's insidious doctrine. let's see how they fair after Furiosa returns. Starts before the events of the film. Oh, and Ace lives. :p
1. Chase

**_I'll give you freaky people a proper summary before you read this tripe. The reason I'm writing this monstrosity is to explain to myself how Furiosa and the former wives are going to keep wasteland assholes from raiding the hell out of them now that there are no War Boys to defend the joint. All they have left are pups and sick dudes waiting for the Organic to come back and hook em' up to blood bags. (he's not coming back. Sorry boys) So... Yeah I'm just probing this dystopian world looking for logical answers to concerns of the logistics in running a place like the Citadel._**

 ** _A tonne of War Boy original characters ahead. You have been warned._**

 ** _If you're looking for Nux/Capable fluff, you won't find it here. Nux is dead. Period. It will take a lot of begging and whimpering to get me to write in his survival, and even then -if I let him live- he's gonna be a mess and I don't mean physically. He's gonna be a mental fucking mess._**

 ** _Everything is in first person because I'm a jerk. These chapters are also going to be short or long or agonizingly clipped depending on what was going on in my head when I wrote them. The perspective will switch rapid fire between characters including Furiosa because I'm just not seeing enough in the fan community from her perspective that isn't romance garbage between her and Max. It starts several days before the events seen in the Fury Road film, and I have no idea who will survive this. Also there will be another road war because I said so._**

 ** _I'm just letting this story happen to me, I'm not planning anything but the base skeleton of the tale and everything else is just going to happen on its own._**

 ** _Also I've already written the gut wrenching end. Because I'm a jerk I'm not going to share any details about the end with you guys. All I'm doing is filling in the road to get there to that ending._**

 ** _Again, most of these war boys are made up, so are the booze peddling wastelanders._**

 ** _We'll talk about romance later. If I feel like it._**

* * *

-Notch-

Speed, purring engines, the shuddering of tires tearing through shallow dunes of sand, howls of violent intent and fury. It was my happiness and everything I knew.

"Dumb shank!" Roared the one who wore a mask to conceal his face as he lobbed another bottle of bursting flames at us. I was lucky Chug had swerved under me to avoid the wreckage of one of the cycles as the plow on the front end of the Dodge they drove massacred both it and the pup rider.

"Witness!"

By Immortan, that bomb chucker was feisty. He'd make a shine lancer if he were one of us and I was admiring with my lips pulled into a snarl, but I'd rather be doin' it from further if he was going to be hurling fire at me. I pounded the roof and shouted to Chug to steer our chariot further out of the fighter's throwing capability. I didn't wanna die soft, screaming and burning up.

On this fine night we were chasing down a group which raced shipments of their special brew to Bartertown by the cover of night. Everything they did was done to keep their presence hush, to conceal their identity and wherever it was they hid in our territory during the daylight.

They were slippery, like a sweat soaked half-life under the fever, or a greasy black thumb's hands; But the Imortan - _Hail V8-_ wanted them and what they could do. They were living here in the immortal's territories, using _his_ roads and making a mean profit doing it. Joe owned their product by default, they just didn't realize this yet.

Nothing can escape Immortan Joe, and nothing can out pace us.

The grog runners only had two chariots . We had them outnumbered by two and a few cycles but their rides were as shine as ours and they fought back against our assault with a skill that would have been praised by the mighty V8 had they not been filthy infidelic spawn.

Vicious as they were, Ike soon saw his glorious opportunity. He'd been fighting the fevers on this long hunt, and linking his fingers at any quiet moment to give prayer for a chromed end to his waning half-life.

Now that we had found the armored cargo truck and had met their viciously defending guard vehicle with the shrill grind of steel against steel I knew what Ike would be thinking. I could even see the fervent glint in the lancer's eye glimmering in the moon light.

When my Pontiac -named Valkyrie's Fender- nearly brushed her passenger door in a grinding caress against Fork's VW -which he had yet name- I passed my own can of chrome to Ike, leaning hard with the force opposing as Chug steered us clear of wrecking against our brothers.

The scrawny shadow of what Ike had once been snatched the can from the hand which gripped it on the end of my outstretched arm. He grinned at me with a fantastically wide maul of crooked teeth, causing his sallow cheeks to stretch his heavily scarred face. It made him look every bit the kamikrazy shit he'd always bragged he'd be on the day he rode to the promised afterlife.

We all knew his time was close, far closer than I suspected that I might go so I held no regret in giving up my grill paint to a comrade from my own generation of war pups. The lumps up and down my spine may have gnawed hard and my chest may have burned with every speck of road dust that had managed to work its way passed the rags pulled over my lips and nostrils but I still had my strength. Ike however was not only painted in the image of sun bleached bones but was fast beginning to resemble a skeleton in shape. He needed that shine on his face more than I did.

The masked defender who perched over the crates of clinking bottles in the back of the armored up dodge seemed to sense the way Ike was eyeing him with a thunder stick in hand. Those oily black eyes burned deep in their pale sockets as he grasped at yet another bottle to stuff in a rag and light it. His stance was low, shoulders hunched and eyes full of the feral krazy.

So far the uppity devil had tossed one boy to the sand below the wheels for his attempt to board and had lit up another on his motorcycle with his fire bombs for veering in too close. Proven deadly and quick, it became apparent that we would not take this one alive without losing more of our own unnecessarily.

Ike -who's life was over no matter what- would have his chance to chase Valhalla and subdue the masked nutter with a sure strike of his lance.

We probably wouldn't need _all_ of them. Taking just one alive was probably enough to ferret out the recipe for their prime gut busting grog. We'd leave the Organic Mechanic to that task later. We would keep one of the drivers -both if possible- but this ruddy mean thing astride the fleeing Dodge needed to go. Ike was up to the task, lining up his leap to glory.

His aim was true, form flawless, his time spent honing the skill and demonstrating it in many battles showed in a grace that could scarcely be put into words. Each of us was riveted as he cried for witness with lips glistening in shimmers of chrome.

The lance lunged down into the masked demon's chest solid center but no bang?! It was a fucking dud! What shit eater had rigged the charge on its end? Whoever had been on duty assembling bang sticks deserved to be- I didn't have the chance to finish that venomous thought, nor watch as Ike grappled with the infuriated enemy who'd been knocked back against the cab of the truck.

Chug musta' been watching the gates of Valhalla open and then crash shut on our brother too closely. The ram bar on our nose jolted against the tail bumper of the enemy Escort with enough strength to rend and tangle metal. It was clear that Chug wasn't quite so ready as I thought to try his hand at driving. If my young lancer _had_ been ready then he'd have known to watch the car ahead of him and take notice when the driver pumped his foot on the brake.

I flew from the lancers perch, soaring like the black birds which pluck the eyes from the dead. I didn't stay flyin' for long though. I met the roof of the enemy war chariot with knees, elbows and a cheek bone.

 _That's gonna scar._

I wasn't at all sure what had caught my face and torn it open but I drank down the pain, made it into fuel then lit it on fire. The arms and legs burned deep in every bend but my fingers found their grip, hauling me inches closer to the wind sheild where glass may once have been in the Before Times.

Things began to blur in the fury, the kamikrazy rush of adrenaline that threw me into action, made my loins throb even. Somehow I'd put myself into the drivers seat, which was for some reason on the wrong side. I could vaguely recall kicking at where I expected the drivers head to be only to find air, then a hand throwing its stony grip around my ankle and pulling my boot off in the struggle. The rest was lost in the blood lust.

The driver was unconscious on the floor boards next to me, knocked flat out and laying in the space where a passenger seat should be, but wasn't.

I could hear my brothers whooping and roaring praise but I just felt jaded as the high of war slithered away from me. I was their senior, the second eldest, perhaps not even the second strongest but I was the one who Valhalla would not accept. I was thrust out of deaths shadow more than I could count, and now once more. By luck the vehicle hadn't rolled when the driver succumbed to my fist rapping on his skull. By luck I had regained control over the speeding two tonnes of metal. Why did I even bother to carry chrome anymore? Valhalla seemed not to want me over this stupid luck.

As I spied the Dodge the driver looked into my eyes with his single intact peeper. He had a face that was painted something like ours but more intricately embellished in skeletal details. Nah, couldn't be paint, the flesh looked too perfectly adorned for paint somehow. It looked more precise. Like the markings that the Organic etched onto blood-bags with ink and a machine.

Anyway, he looked completely terrified despite his nearly intimidating size. I pulled back, tapping the break as I saw him reaching for something in his lap. Probably a pistol. The thought was confirmed when I heard the bang over the drone of the engines all around and the ping of lead on steel. I looked to the back of the cargo truck, Ike was still fighting with that masked maniac but not for long. They both tumbled out onto the sand in their struggle, left in the dust if not mashed under the treads of tires. Someone shouted _Witness_ , but no one could be sure if the man was dead. Ike was notorious for taking tumbles and he knew how to fall. Even as weak as he was he might still be alive.

The pursuit continued on, but eventually things became more complicated when we realized that we had entered the hostile zones. We had veered into the territory of the Buzzards, flesh eaters who dwell under the sands in the sunken cities.

We downed three of their prickly death machines yet still we became separated from our prey in the chaos. Somehow the armored truck had slipped away from us but the problem of fuel made it impossible to continue the chase. If we didn't cut our losses now and turn back then we'd never make the return to the Citadel without unreasonable losses. After five days there just wasn't enough guzzoline to risk furthering this mission. We had one hooch maker, that should be enough I hoped.

Ike was picked up on the way, wandering along the tracks we left for him to follow and adorned with raw sand rash. The body of the masked manic was never found.


	2. Listening

-Ace-

Rev heads. Black thumbs. Lancers. They can drive, mend, and kill any machine once set in motion with a purpose.

The massive garage loft, suspended on high, housed their shiny treasures. These steel beasts and roaring machines were cherished in a way some wretcheds might call borderline romantic. Pale arms tipped with grease blackened fingers polished chrome bumpers and smoothed the softest tatters of cloth available over their creations, the metal flesh of their souls. They caress their chariots as if they were tiny children, then beat their fists against the bone and sinew of their brothers as if to prove to themselves that they are more than their collective sickness.

On this morning, those who stayed behind prayed that the minute raiding party sent forth six and a half days before would return victorious from their wild hunt. Another day and it would be assumed that they had been pillaged, or stolen as is the case with more and more war boys on long ventures these days.

Cars would turn up empty lately. No bodies to be found, vehicles untouched as if they bared a bad omen. Even the Buzzards wouldn't touch them no matter how tempting the scrap.

So the many who had stayed began on the sixth day to wonder if they would ever return, some prepared to mourn in the sacred way which entailed dividing the few belongings of the lost among those he had known.

Two senior boys had gone. Notch and Ike, along with their partners Chug and Fork and two more pursuit teams. A few youngsters on cycles went with them in order to test themselves on their first rides through the dunes with their older brethren. If they weren't home by nightfall this day, the worst would be assumed. The rule for hoping was a week, as there was a limit on the supplies a hunting party is permitted to carry. Three days of millet to eat, and Aqua Cola to drink. That was all. There wasn't any point in hoping for their return if they are gone longer than seven days. Four days thirst out there would kill even a healthy dingo. Not that such a creature had even been sighted in more than twenty years.

Dawn broke over the distant horizon, sending ribbons of hot light across the tepid sands. Sometimes the cacophony of sound in the garage would quiet, just enough that I could turn an ear toward the badlands and listen for the growl of familiar motors.

I had performed the mourning ritual many times, handing out the tools and trinkets of the lost to his closest. I'd done it without count and it always felt like there were more boys to be mourned than days I had lived and those days were many. Notch was one of the ones who had survived many too, living to be 8,000 days plus the ones no one could account for before his arrival. That one that Valhalla kept belching back out, a sick body that refused to die.

I could remember when that one had appeared among the wretched, not much taller than my knee, limbs like thin rails, begging to be lifted up to rise above the others. "I can fight." He had wheezed, a hundred times he had coughed up the words and each time the lift guardians had to wrench his fingers from their trousers and cast him back out into the unwashed masses. They threw him, kicked him away, beat him till his eyes rolled over white and launched him back, but still he fought to the front of the hoard and cried "I can fight!". He'd grown stronger day by day, lapping up the spilled droplets from the rationed flows of Aqua Cola gifted to the wretched from the Immortan. Finally I had snatched up the maggot myself upon return from a run to Gas Town as the brat sprung forth to grasp at my leg, screaming through his dust ruined lungs. "LET ME FIGHT! You're The Ace! Please hear me!"

He earned a hard thonk on the head for grabbing at me like that, but even then despite my annoyance I had dragged him up by the scruff and taken him to be tossed into the pits. He wanted to fight? So be it. I had put it into the hands of V8 and watched the older pups thrash him till all of his sprog teeth were punched out of their bloody sockets. Then when the boy still pulled himself to his feet and asked for more, only then did I let him be adorned with white clay, and embellished him with his new name. He outlived each and every one of the pups from his litter. In time, Notch and his former lancer Tank would do the same for a wretched boy who would come to be known as Chug. When Tank departed to Valhalla, Chug had pleaded to ride with Notch but the older and seasoned War Boy had not been through grieving his lancer. So for his insistence Notch bit off the boy's ear, tested him till he nearly broke, and only then did he accept the much younger Chug as his own.

Shock was different. He had been brought home by the other senior boy back when Ike was still broad in the shoulders instead of the skeletal husk he was today. Shock had been young, maybe only 900 days of age. Shock was said to have been found on a training excursion in the dunes and had chewed off a trainee pup's thumb. Feisty and feral, he had forged a strong bond with the very same pup whose thumb he had swallowed. Lugnugget. They fought, clawed and gnashed their teeth into each other -still do even for fun- but you never saw them apart. It was unnatural to see one of the pair alone now. They had vowed to ride to Valhalla together and battle on the eternal highway as one when it was their time to be witnessed.

Ike and fork... Well, Fork was young and only filling in for Ike's partner, who had departed to Valhalla a dozen raids earlier. Ike desperately wanted to follow him. Ike was as about as old as Notch, had been taken up around the same time too but was perhaps several hundred days younger. His body was no longer well enough to fight. He'd begged to go this time, guilting Notch about it so that he could go out properly chromed on the Immortan's roads. I was hoping he'd be the only one whose' belongings I'd need to sort through, but the wastes hold no promises. All may be gone. Lost to the sand and heat, or the dangers which lurked out there watching the white painted warriors carefully for blasphemous weakness.

Those boys were good fighters, better hunters. That was why Immortan Joe sent them specifically to collect the grog making vagrants who were suckling off the richness of his lands. Living on his territory without permission, selling their brew in Bartertown and profiting while living in the general vicinity of Joe's expansive property. Joe wanted them alive for their expertise. We'd heard a lot about them over time through hushed whispers, little by little it became evident that they hid in close proximity, doing their work in the quiet night, engines purring low and slow as they skulked out of ear shot on their bi-annual runs. Every once in a while one of their bottles would turn up in the hands of a war boy. The bottle would always have a white hand print on it, the unique finger tip whorls in the paint familiar; a reassuring sign that the product was pure and wouldn't poison the drinker. It couldn't be forged unless you reused their bottles, and even then you could tell a fake by the taste. Theirs was a pure root wine that could eat through the stomach of a vulture if you didn't dilute it. I had a few bottles of it stashed away for myself and those woeful nights after particularly long and shit raids which often claimed the short lives of too many of _my_ boys.

I'd been to Bartertown a time or two in the last few thousand days. Any time I saw the bottles I picked them up, trading for trinkets from my pockets.

Immortan wanted that which the grog makers could create in order to trade at that very place. Maybe then he could convince the infamous Aunty of Bartertown to do proper negotiations with him, and he could bring back the precious pigs for meat and partake of the methane fuel her lands produced from the swine shit.

If his boys didn't return, I vowed to keep my blame silent, though I knew where it belonged. The false god. I've been livin' much too long, seen too much, remembered too much. Immortan Joe was as much a god as I was a young pup. Not a bloody bit, but I didn't dare voice that opinion, nor denounce V8 fully. Even if I could only half believe, it had ensnared me into it's tangled web of cult tradition despite my resentment of it's presence. It was all I knew, like listening for engines whispering in the distance was all I knew to do today.

By high noon I had retreated momentarily from my duties to find a quiet place on my crackling old knees by the wheel shrines where I lace my thickly calloused fingers over my head, hailing V8 in prayer. "Return to us those that are not yet awaited. Notch, Nytro, Fork, Cutter, Chug, Shock, Lugnugget. Uplift those who are ready to become fully fledged, Bolts, Zinny, Wingnut, and Gizzard. Open your chrome gates to Ike, where his brother Dun awaits him with open arms. Let them honor him with their deeds. Veeight."

I bowed my head and brushed my lips against doubled fists before uplifting the salute once again to repeat, I was however interrupted by a pack of pups rushing to bring me a message, all howling at once as I stood. "ENOUGH! You, in the front. You speak, the rest of you can it so I can hear!"

You had to be gruff with them, no matter how much you wanted to be tender toward the small ones. If you weren't hard on them, they grew not to respect you, and they'd die soft on the road. The boy in the front chirped the news they had brought with a high lifted chin and a stiff back. "Hunting party returns sir! They have an armored Ford Escort with them! And a prisoner roped up to the hood! Looks like they took one of them slangers alive! And it seems like most got back in one piece too... But Ike's still with us." He added, the small boy shaking his head. Everyone had known how Ike wished to go already. What a shame.

The young ones dashed ahead down the stone corridors to the garage loft, running far ahead of my tired old carcass. I would stalk at my own pace, knowing that I'd get there in plenty of time before they were risen up on the lift, two cars at a time. When I arrived The Pontiac Judge which Notch and Chug had named Valkyrie's Bumper or some nonsense was on it's way up, with it the new addition to our vehicular armory. An armored up Ford Escort which was lined with rail road spikes and ram bars. Notch pumped his fist in the air. All their grease darkened eyes smudged and most of the white clay worn away to reveal fierce sun burns on each boy.

"WE RETURN VICTORIOUS!" Notch called up to the throng of waiting black thumbs and praising brothers.

Cutter and Nytro were with them, having ridden on the roof of the stolen enemy Escort on the ride up. As they made it to the top, Notch slapped Cutter's shoulder. "We have our grog runner booty here!" Then he slapped his young lancer Chug over his bald cranium, causing him to curse loudly and throw an elbow back at his elder driver, but Notch just jigged away from the attack, chuckling. "And this smeg almost got me killed, but he's going to make a shiny driver one day yet!... But don't expect me to let you drive again any time soon you clumsy shit." Chug still grinned hugely as Notch grasped his shoulder and gave him a congratulatory shake. Once they were up top, Notch and I nodded to one another in greeting as I approached to examine the goods.

"Only one?" I questioned, certain there should have been more hooch makers to bag and brand. I looked toward Cutter for an explanation, he needed to learn how to talk, but I knew I woulsn't get much out of him.

I felt my lips twist. I had not been heard and I knew it was because the two younger boys -barely more than pups by my count- were too busy basking in the glow of their triumph.

Notch grit his teeth a bit. I could tell he was ashamed, but he had Furiosa to deal with. I wouldn't bother shredding him myself when he had a far deeper chewing to look forward to for bringing back just one.


	3. Realist

-Nytro-

As the hunting Party ascended into the garage pillar the many shouts and howls of triumph from our brothers above throbbed in my ears. They were congratulating us on our return but they hadn't been there and hadn't seen the failures. Like Ike failing to die like he should have, or the rest of us failing to save the majority of the goods from falling into filthy scavenger hands. If they had seen then they wouldn't be so chipper to see us.

Cutter was by my side, hovering close enough that I could smell his breath and the gum infection from his erupting wisdom teeth. The way he damn near clung used to drive me krazy when we were pups but over time I'd become so accustomed that it was not right to be too far apart. I needed to be able to gauge my lancer's condition at all times. I depend on him to throw a thunderstick and do it well. If he wasn't in top shape we'd get smoked out there. I wasn't like Notch who could teach a lowly pup _everything_ and then consign himself to making up for the incompetence of others.

I was a realist. Being a realist means knowing that somebody was getting a boot in the ass, I was getting a shitty night sleep tonight, and Ike was going to die on the Organic's stone slabs before the next raid. My punishment was Cutter's unseen frailty. Tonight he'd feel cold, his jaw would ache something fierce and he'd shiver violently under my arm with the fever. He wasn't a half-life technically but he was still sick like an irradiated dog. He had bad teeth in the back, broken down to crumbles because of how he clenched and ground them in his sleep. The wisdom chompers coming in now just made that mess even worse. It was easy to see how shit ivory in your face can ruin the rest of the meat it's attached to. I had no idea how Coma had managed to survive so long with a mouth like he had, maybe he shred through the pain with his duel axe. I don't know, but Cutter didn't have that sort of outlet besides inflicting sacred pain on our brothers.

Through inflicting the sacred pain maybe he could make trade to get something for rinsing out that rotten mess tonight. A war boy will trade most anything save for his tools and his war chariot for a skilled man to cut him up with a nice shiny design. Cutter was good at that, and it was where he had earned his name. Many boys did their skin decals on their own, but the ones who wanted it real nice came to either Cutter or Nux.

Lately, Nux was too busy slipping between the most pitiful form of wakefulness and feverish sleep in the Organic's shop to be bothered with a cutting job.

The more I thought about it and the scorching heat of his cooked shoulder against mine the more I decided that my lancer would be too thirsty and sun baked to spend the time carving somebody up for a numbing tonic. I'd have to trade with what I had to offer. That's what you do when you have to depend on someone, even if they had shit breath and no regard for your personal space.

I was distracted with my thoughts, the others were distracted by the fervor of the homecoming. I hadn't heard as the Ace spoke but I most certainly felt it when he grabbed hold of my jaw and twisted my face around to look at him.

"There are supposed to be three brew makers. And product." The old man gruffed through his crooked face. I didn't want to accept the concern hidden under the gravel in his growl or the glint in his eyes. I didn't want anyone's concern. If anything Notch was the one he should be concerned about. The imperator with the chrome arm would smash him into oblivion, even if we had come back with more than I had expected us to.

Also, I just didn't want to be touched. A growl clawed its way up my throat and my lips curled back. It would have been impossible to hold back snide defense I'd have offered and it would have landed me a bloody mouth if Notch hadn't stepped forward to interject with a cool tone.

"We must have caught them in their way back into the territory. There are a few bottles in the trunk of the grog guzzlier's car. The other cargo and driver slipped us after the chase pushed on into Buzzard ter- gahh!" Ace must not have cared to hear Notch's reasoning, for he now had a hold my senior's heavily scarred lower lip, pulling it to shut him up. Even If Notch was the eldest next to Ace now, the ancient old rig monkey still regarded him the same as the rest of us. Just green brats.

"I asked this boy pup here." Ace ground through his teeth.

My first reaction was to pull my head back and out of the curl of his fingers but he had his blunt nails dug in. I wasn't getting out of this without giving up an explanation or backing up Notch's claim. "Like he said Ace. A few bottles and the meat sack we got strapped to the hood. There was a few cases of oats and barley in the back too. Musta' been what they were trading for in Bartertown... Everything else the scavengers picked clean no doubt."

In my peripheral I could spy Notch's lips twitching toward a scowl. It seemed that his opinion of the hunt was different than mine. I was guarding my ass as well as my Lancer's. He couldn't blame me for that. The rest of the failures were on him.

It wasn't that I had any bad blood for the man, but Notch wasn't hard enough on the others. It was those damn _before_ memories he had festering up in his gray meat. It was why he cut a notch in his skin for each one he witnessed. That was some hereditary quirk he never let go of, even as he became a devout.

As I seethed through my thoughts, Ace seethed through his own and musta' come to an impasse. Someone was getting the boot in the bum and the Ace couldn't stop it; but it wasn't gonna be me. I could tell that from the direction his eyes twitched to. Notch.

* * *

 ** _So right now I'm just lollygagging around and introducing all of the characters. This dumb story will pick up after the sandstorm. I promise that._**

 ** _What I don't promise is stellar grammatical quality or decent syntax. I'm just violently spewing this crap out of my head somewhere so I can get back to writing an an actual original work. I'm kind enough to run the blocks of texts through a word processor to weed out dumb spelling mistakes and that's about as far as I'm going to go._**

 ** _So unless you want to become my official beta reader and editor, don't take anything erroneous too seriously because I'm not going to fix it unless its absolutely horrible._**


	4. Screamin' Bloodbag

-Shiv-

The world was lurching to and fro while the wind buffeted with the touch of fire and flavor of exhaust fumes.

 _Where am I? Brew? Whimper? Help me. It burns. My skin is burning. Help me._

Where were they? Where was I? I had no idea. All I could summon to the forefront of my memory was the sound of Brew's voice, haggling with a wealthy merchant in Bartertown while Whimp and I sat on the hood of the truck, just people watching.

 _Head hurts._

There was heat searing through the canvas of my slacks and turning any exposed skin into a road map of cracks and blisters. I was strapped to the hood of my own car. I could recognize her by the sound of the crap rattling around on the floor boards inside.

 _It burns._

Light scorched my already grit coated eyes as I made an attempt to understand my surroundings. I could make out shapes and color through the sun glare. There was the ever present rusty palette of the dead world and the shadows of war cars lurching over waves of red sand. Swarming over the steel war horses were ghostly figures with pale skin and sunken eyes.

 _No. No._

It had happened, the very nightmare Brew had warned us against time and time again to illicit caution from us. What had happened? Who's mistake had brought them down upon us? We'd come so far and lived so long for what? For death at the hands of men who are merely walking corpses themselves?

 _Are they dead? Did the the white painted agents of Loki kill them?_

Maybe they heard us, maybe we had been too eager to return home and let the engines roar in glee with us. We had done so well with the merchants this time, bartering enough to keep us for a year and six months. It was always a bittersweet blessing to have enough not to venture out much, as much as I loved to fly over the hills and dunes almost fast enough to take off like a bird. Maybe it was my fault, maybe I had throttled up too much and drawn them to us. If they were dead then their blood was on my hands, if for no mistake then for the sin of having survived the attack. Brew and Whimper were always the better fighters, why had I lived?

 _Ought to be dead soon too. Dryin' out._

Despite my realization that the thirst would take me soon I could sense that wetness had collected on my face to moisten the crust of red gone black from the drying sun. I wasn't crying. I wasn't capable of that was I? The blood was simmering thick in my veins now. It could be sweat but I wasn't sure if I had enough liquid left in me to do that either. Maybe it was new blood from a busted blister or from whatever was making my head stab and ache. A head wound maybe, which could explain why I couldn't recall what had brought me here to this Hel.

 _The wealth of luck must have finally run out. We've had more than our fair share and now the gods are angry._

I was angry too. So angry. The fear had swollen up like a blood bruise under the skin, swelling and throbbing and then turning into festered fury. At first I just screamed, screamed till it felt like my lungs might burst. After the shit eater driving my car stopped -signaling the others to stop too- Somebody shoved a canteen in my face and I drank from it greedily even though I could taste the chalk from somebody's white paint on the spout. After my raw throat was quenched with piss warm water the slurs came. Most were stupid and childish. Lizard dick, cactus macking ass pirate, dilweed, inbred grease eater and much, much more. Nothing I shouted was particularly creative but inevitably they got sick of hearing it as the sun rose on the single most shitty afternoon of my life. I was gagged with grease blackened rags although that did less to shut me up than the roar of them revving up to move out again.

 _Fenris ate the world. Swallowing everything into his greedy maul. They lied when they told us that the world would end in a blanket of snow. It ended in fire. Fire from the belly of the greedy wolf._

Brew's words. They echoed in my head, as if the teachings of a burnt out moonshine peddler might bring comfort. They didn't. All that came were the tales woven from threads of fear and pain, things the people from before the end of times howled into the nuclear night and the disease riddled winters that followed.

Great towers of stone soon formed on the horizon, following the sight were the cries of the maggots who squirmed at the ground level of Immortan Joe's stronghold. I'd heard them called wretcheds. Brew always called them _those who deserve a merciful culling_ , but Whimper always called them _the hopeful_.

Their bodies were dirty and the smell down here was- Oh, I shuddered at the memory it wrenched to the surface of my mind. The more I looked the more I realized that Whimper had them spot on. They all looked deranged with hope. The hope was for water I supposed.

 _It's a lie. All of that desperate hope is a lie._

That irrefutable truth settled in the pit of my stomach and left me feeling like I needed to retch that water back up. Any foreseeable future here would be just as hopeless for a creature like me. I'd heard that the fiends were vampires, siphoning off blood from any captive they dragged back to their nest. That had to be what awaited me. Why else would they haul my sorry ass back here and put up with my senseless ranting? I'd also bitten somebody at the membrane between the thumb and forefinger while they were cramming that rag down my mouth and tying a sweaty scarf tight between my teeth. Everything I knew about War Boys insisted that they'd have removed my head from my neck for the slightest of offenses. They must have some purpose for me, and that was the part that kick-started the fear back into motion.

 _Gonna bleed us dry and carve us up if we ever get caught Shiv._

Brew needed to stop speaking in my skull unless the words were gonna start being helpful. Usually the old fart's murmurings were a soothing balm but all I could seem to remember right then was the anxiety that lived under the gentle teachings. All I could hear were the things my mentor had always been dying to say but wouldn't burden us with.

 _The world has teeth that gnash and tear. Everything has teeth. Haven't you seen the bite marks on me? Haven't you Shiv? You shoulda' been smart enough not to get bit ya' dipstick._

The monsters and their over embellished death machines were being rolled onto the lift or hooked with cranes to be lifted into a multilayer garage facility. I have to admit, it was pretty fuckin' sweet to behold. Nothing like the garage nook in the cave I shared with my mentor and stepbrother. The awe was however only momentary.

Oh Hel, the _noise_ of this joint. It made the ringing and zinging in my head quadruple into a haze of all things awful. I can't tell you how surprised I was when the writhing hoards of poor-folk made a path for the cars and didn't start clawing at them until the lift rose. They must have been afraid of the walking corpses. Holy shit, what the Hel have these people witnessed here? Probably everything ranging from the most grotesque forms of corporeal punishment to a famine micromanaged by the tyrannical despot for his own entertainment.

At the entry level of the primary garage the noise became unbearable. It rattled my broken head right up until the most decrepit War Boy I had ever seen made his way onto the scene. Things went quiet then. I looked at him, and he looked at me with gray eyes that cut right down to my bones.

"There should be three brew makers. And product." He said once he turned his attention back to the walking dead men.

It was then that I knew what I had been brought here for. Plenty of people could make moonshine around here though it qualified less as a spirit and more as toilet wine or wood hooch. Both of those things can kill you if you do it wrong. They'd hunted us because of what Brew knew how to make but why would that be so important? It's a luxury, maybe the tyrant had a mind to produce and sell it himself. I was knowledgeable but only to an extent. I couldn't determine the quality with little more than a swish and spit like my master could but I could _make_ the stuff. The question was, did I want to be enslaved?

 _No. Hella no._

They'd get the recipe outta me the day the wasteland turns into a field of green growing mint leaves. Fecking never. I'd rather be dead like these poor sods and join my brother and my master in the afterlife than pander to these freaks for my own sorry skin.

 _They'd probably gone to Valhalla for dying in battle. Where to people who die here go?_

Maybe I could ask a War Boy, they seemed to draw faith from some twisted reflection of the old gods... No, it's pointless. Here in this rancid place Odin has been eclipsed by the false god, Immortan. I'd probably be hard pressed to find anyone who even knew the names Thor and Baldr and Frigga and Fulla.

I could only wonder how long my strength might hold out, I never had much to begin with in the mental sense. All I had were hard words and tough skin. Could that be enough to hold out? Maybe long enough to make some ill guided escape. Then what? Would I crawl back to the caverns where Brew and Whimper may never exist again? There was no guarantee that they were dead, but hope was not in their favor.

 _They murdered my family._

Anger came for the third time as the reality of what they had done finally registered. At that time the one with the slits cut through his eyebrows slid into the seat of my fucking car, calling out to the others. I was too hot in the skull to make sense of the noise he made, too damn pissed.

I'd come to learn the names of a few of them during the part of the journey where I was conscious. That asshole named Nytro was turning around to grasp at my ankles while the other one with the scarification so thick they had to be layered over each other in some places started undoing the tethers that had me laying there prone to the hood.

To say I struggled was an understatement. I dug my heels in any chance I got and made it impossible for them to take me wherever they intended to without a few bruises and blood between the three of us.

The sonofabitch who let his masses of scar tissue do all the talking for him was wearing my shoulder guard on his arm. The remains of a leather jacket where only the sleeve had been salvageable, I used to use it to guard my elbow on the driver side or stick the three inch metal studs on the shoulder pad into anyone who was stupid enough to make a grab at me just by leaning into their charge. It felt selfish to be angry about that among everything else I'd clearly lost the night before. _Brew, Whimper, home._ But if any excuse for the anger to double was found, it did.

"HUCK OUU!" Fuck you. "UUSSY HACE!" Pussy face. Stupid gag. They laughed. Fucking laughed into my face. Ouff, one of them had right _foul_ breath.

"Think'e may be fussy cause' ur wearin's his armor. Eh Cutter?" Said the talker of the pair, Nytro. Shit head.

The other one just shrugged and adjusted the straps across his torso which held the sleeve in place. It made the flames in my head rippin' hot and the crack no doubt in my skull throb with my pulse. I don't know how I broke away from the other, but I did. I wasted no time in worsening my situation or the pounding in my head. I just plowed forward and brought my brow to the silent War Boy's temple.

-0-

I should have thought about that before doing it. Apparently I had only succeeded in knocking myself unconscious. I think maybe someone had taken a shot at my ribs while I was down too. That certainly hadn't been stabbin' like mad before I'd woken up here in- Wait. Where the hell am I?

 _Ah! God! What the hell is that!?_

It was this horrible jolt of mind numbing sensation somewhere between the back of my neck and shoulders. It wasn't painful, it surpassed that familiar feeling by ten fold even after the pressure there lifted. After choking up a few pitiful noises that I'd later deny sobbing up I could smell hair and flesh burnt.

 _Branding iron Shiv. They mark their property, but not like we do with the touch of a hand and innocuous paint._

Brew again, making sense of it for me in my head when I hadn't the faculties to process what was happening. All I could do otherwise was tug at my limbs to pull them in close, but they wouldn't budge, too many hands holding them in place.

"What's ur blood type?" Someone asked, the voice was somehow mocking. He had some teeth missing, weird spectacles on his head that looked like little long-lookers and hair all over his jaw left un-kept. I spat dryly as an answer and he simply snorted unsurprised.

"Later then. Get um sheered and deloused. I'll have'ta deal with him later. Shop's backen up an I need to do mah actual job round here... Figure out his blood type too wontcha Crypt? Might need an extra blood bag in the mean time before the fun starts tonight. Got me a feelin' he won't be doin' much talkin' till the whipper's through with em."

 _Told ya they're gonna bleed us dry and carve us up if we ever get caught Shiv._

 _You're not helping Brew._

* * *

 _ **Alrighty then. Another chapter. Longest one yet but not by much. I'll be through introducing people... eventually. Yeah. Eventually.**_

 _ **Debating whether to do Crypt or Chug next but I might have to circle back to Notch first for a short chapter. Whatever, I'll figure it out in the morning.**_

 _ **Special thanks to TheMissingLynx for leaving a review. Thanks a butt load cause' it actually got my off my own butt to finish this chapter.**_


	5. Under Pressure

**_MINOR CHANGES HAVE BEEN MADE IN THIS CHAPTER SO THAT THE FOLLOWING CHAPTER WILL MAKE MORE SENSE._**

 ** _So... Yeah. Furiosa is pretty stressed out about the crazy ass plan Angharad and the wives roped her into. Shitty thing is, Notch just happened to step into her space at the very moment when the weight of it all came crashing down on her._ **

**_In the next chapter you'll get to read about the fact that he just doesn't know how to handle this shit._ _I mean, Hel. He's pushing thirty five and is WAY too brainwashed for this bullshit emotional road._**

 **The song _Under Pressure_ by Freddy Mercury and David Bowie helped me with this chapter a lot.**

* * *

-Furiosa-

I had a headache. No matter what I did it persisted. I tried calming the grinding gears in my head with an oil change, new break pads and polishing the hard to reach areas of the most beautiful lady I knew, the War Rig.

No matter. The redundant work did nothing to help me tune out the noise which assaulted from both inside and out and the pain never eased. It just grew and grew.

 _Who killed the world?_

The hold needed to be aired out first or else they would suffocate. If I made a point to do that right now -with all the black thumbs, crew and Ace present- I knew that they would notice the peculiarity of such a concern. Because who would care if the auxiliary hold stunk like guzz and compost?

The headache might be a good enough excuse to shoo everyone out.

"Boss." I heard Ace calling me softly from just behind my head as I considered my next actions.

" _What_." I snapped but he didn't seem offended. He was surely aware that my aching skull was making a monster out of me.

"I'm headed to the shrines. That hunting party you sent out ain't back yet. Not looking forward to rooting through all the shit they have hoarded in their bunks." He was explaining his own impending exodus from the War Rig's den. Good. He didn't need to be here and asking questions when I expelled everyone else out of this place too.

At his words though, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of something shamefully soft in my bones. It didn't matter so much that Joe would skin me alive for choosing a crew which failed to acquire the goods, but the knowledge that they had probably perished left my right hand itching to snatch something unseen out of the air and bring it to my breast.

Instead as Ace's foot falls faded out of earshot I shouted, chasing out all of the sound and distractions which scrambled the thoughts in my head and made it impossible to focus. Sound didn't ever bother me before I'd been assigned to guard the wives. How krazy.

"Out! I can't hear myself think! Everyone out! Find something better to do than hanging around in here!" I had snarled. I didn't even mean to shout with such ferocity. Damn headache was making me nastier than a hungry goanna.

The child mechanics scurried off, and the older boys grumbled in protest but did not linger. Morsov and Twitchel might have looked my way with questions in their eyes but I didn't honor them by lifting my head to see thewm. I just kept my ears pricked and counted each set of feet that left the cavernous home of the Rig.

She was already in top shape, ready to be loaded and ferried down on the lift in two days time but even when there was nothing to do here, crew and black thumb tend to congregate in the space. It was our turf, a place we all felt fairly comfortable but they really _could_ find something better to do than laze about and chatter in here. Once I was alone and had opened her up underneath to circulate air through I found that all I had a mind to do was procrastinate; brow pressed to the grill of the road beast as I did just that. There my brain wandered through Everything that had led me here starting from the beginning. It made the brand on my neck burn all over again with the memory. It didn't take me long at all to be cast out of the vault.

Years ago when I was new to this life on the knife's edge a plague had swept through the Citadel. Joe and his wives back then -all replaced by younger, healthier women now- had been spared through quarantine. All but me. When I fell ill with it I had been ejected in order to prevent the spread. It was assumed that I would simply die among the countless others. The Wretched, War Boys and Pups who had been left to suffer the wrath of the sickness.

After the deaths had been tallied and the survivors counted too, litters of pups and unranked had to be merged to make up for the losses. Notch and Tank were brought into the same creche of pups I was pulled into and Ace had taken over our education then.

Knowing that lot I had been brought up with was how I had known who to ask when Immortan Joe expressed a desire to make trade with Aunty of Bartertown and to crush the vagrants in this land who had the audacity to defy him. Notch and Tank had never progressed up the ladder higher than boys who specialized in tracking down live commodities. It was their niche, bringing home blood bags and outside talent. A crew grew under them, half lives ending and new faces appearing among them all the time as with most groups here. Tank though, I had genuinely expected him to outlive rust in his lungs Notch, not the other way around. One stray bullet is all it takes.

Those two glorious assholes. Impossible to forget.

" _Quit fucking complaining and shave your damn head if all that hair bothers you so much!" Notch seethed, flinging the straight razor to my feet harshly now that he was done with it himself. Tank cackled at me, but made an encouraging motion with his hands to demonstrate the proper method with which to sheer the threads of hair from one's head._

That was a long time ago, mere weeks after I had joined the white wash army of devoted War Boys. We were young back then, Notch had been a willowy creature with a face still rounded by childhood. I had also been a few inches shorter myself.

Everyone from that grouping was dead now, gone off to Valhalla. All but me, The Ace, and Notch. Old fucks. Still I held the memories close, no matter how harsh we'd all been on each other. I missed those days when I had discovered a new kind of freedom on Fury Road.

 _Back then when I had been a War Boy._

Battle fodder was what Giddy had taught Joe's wives to call our kind. No, War Boys were hardly fodder. How could anyone label them like that? Yes, Joe owns them. Owns me. He owns all thought and future and strangles down hope with the smothering weight of his reign but War Boys were more than the women knew. They were -besides aqua cola- the single most pure and undiluted substance in this festering pit of ugly blackness. They are what everyone is thinking, wanting to do, wishing they could unleash. Only a half life is brave and Kamikrazy enough to do what we are all itching to. They don't fear death; instead living a hundred percent of their lives in the shortened time granted to them. We're all angry, all of us have a story and a fire deep inside but theirs burns brighter and fizzles out sooner.

They don't want and they don't worry. I'd almost be willing to suffer the fevers and the lumps for a mind so clear and certain of life after death.

I must have killed quite a measure of time, when I turned for my tools a familiar face was there watching me carefully as he held out a crate. Why hadn't I heard the drums and the shouts of adulation at the return of kin? I must have been too deep in my head to hear it for there he was, the head of the hunting crew I'd selected six days ago. I was so numb that I couldn't even be relieved to see that they had returned alive.

I envied Notch's ignorance, so much that I genuinely wanted to wrap my arm around his neck and feel the life drain out of him. I was jealous of the clarity of mind robbed of me in recent days.

All I could be was fixated on how everything was going to spiral out of my control and ponder on every way I could get unlucky. All I had to cling to now was worry and the words Angharad had spat onto me. How could I let this happen? Why did I let them get under my skin and how could I let myself remember what it had been like before, more than 7,000 days ago in some other place? I let them break through my resolve and shake my faith from the ways learned _here_.

 _Back when things were simple._

It was all going wrong, as if I were a war machine that was beginning to lean and swerve too far to prevent from flipping over and rolling over its flanks.

Notch recounted the story of the hunting party's venture blow for blow. They had only returned with one prisoner and a few bottles. Never mind the rusted out turd they had driven back with. It would never be enough to satisfy the expectations of Joe yet I wasn't truly upset. I had far greater concerns now. Thanks to Giddy and Angharad.

 _Too much pressure. It hurts._

I can't remember what exactly I had said in response. That whole day seems like a dream to me now but I know for certain that I tried to tell the War Boy that I was too tired to be angry with him. He just blinked at me as if I'd spoken in some other tongue. A lack of anger was something a War Boy just couldn't grasp. I think up until a few dozen days ago I might have been just as impossible. I don't know.

Useless. He couldn't understand. This was the first time I'd ever seen them as anything but easy to communicate with. I wasn't speaking his language anymore nor my own.

There was also the secret I was trying to hide. The plan I knew to be nothing but suicidal. If I came off soft now, then others would sense the storm brewing beyond the horizon. Joe would sense danger if I became too weary to dole out punishment now.

Joe was a complacent old man but never too stupid to guess when one of his subordinates was up to something nuts.

Notch wasn't stupid either, I'm sure the look in his eye said plenty about what he'd already sensed abstractly in his mind. It was too late, but if I offered the familiarity of what he had expected here and then asked for silence I knew he'd grant me that.

I fish-hooked the corner of his lip when I dropped the crate and lunged but I didn't tear him open like I might have months ago given the same transgression. I just pulled him down and twisted the flesh between my metal fingers until new blood flowed from the scabbed gnash over his cheekbone. Then socked the eye on the other side for good measure.

Why did they have to be so different? Why was I being forced to choose one band of sisters over _my_ band of brothers?

If I took the sisterhood to the place I could only find in my dreams I'd have to traitor my crew.

If I stayed, I'd never know for sure if the Green Place had ever really existed outside of my head.

 _It's not fair. But everything hurts out here and I have to remember that. It's not fucking fair._

When the struggle ended with Notch pinned flat to the unforgiving stone and face down I felt the pressure in my head redouble, smashing me to pieces. "Tell no one. Not even the Ace."

No one else could know how fractured I was, pieces pulling in different directions. And it was so, so stupid to trust Notch with a moment of weakness. So stupid and soft. But he was soft too, I knew his secret weakness too. He'd never mention it if I broke now, and I needed that.

* * *

 ** _I'm responding to reviews down here. Thank you FreyaRides for the encouragement!_ **

**_An answer to the question which was asked by TheMissingLynx. That's an excellent question. Shiv's future depends on how useful he's willing to be. If there's no willingness on his part to share the knowledge needed to distill or if the product is sub-par then they will probably find some other use for him._**

 ** _I don't think they actually drain the life out of their blood donors all in one go. The Organic Mechanic and his staff probably rotate the bloodbags and provide them enough to eat and drink because their sole purpose there is to produce the blood cells that the war boys desperately need (for reasons we can speculate forever) so they are probably maintained in some way right? Although I'm sure the general care granted to a blood bag leaves a lot to be desired given that they're kept in man sized bird cages._**

 ** _What I try to draw on is that moment in the film where the Organic shouts "_ Careful! That's a universal donor! _" Then again, he DID also let Slit and Nux cart Max off and strap him to their car like an angry hood ornament no more than three minutes later. So what he said could have been careless sarcasm. Or maybe he didn't want to argue the idea with two kamikrazy dudes hell bent on doing war because he values his own health._**

 ** _Who knows. Anyway I got distracted and my point was supposed to be that if Shiv doesn't share the recipe for safe tasty hooch or only manages to makes something that tastes like boiled ass, then life there is going to suck for him. A lot._**

 _ **I'm open to suggestions though. And actually. Screamin' bloodbag is meant to be a two parter sorta, but we won't get to revisit Shiv or say hello to feral things for a while.** _


	6. Imperators aren't supposed to

**_Welp it's done. I guess Chug is next. Then Crypt, then Shiv again._ _It took a LOT of Queen and AC/DC to get through this chapter for some reason._**

 ** _Poor Notch is too old and cult brained for this._**

* * *

-Notch-

I turned my eyes to Nytro as Ace let my lip go free. I wasn't sure he knew what he had actually seen last night. The way Nytro described it wasn't exactly how it happened. After the masked nutter and Ike tumbled into the sand Buzzards had appeared but the way it looked... I couldn't say for sure but it seemed as if they had come to the aid of our quarry, pushing us to the fringes and boxing the cargo truck in like a defending escort. Nytro and Cutter nor Shock and Lug have had the years to know the difference. That's what you get when you outlive your entire original litter. You start to think too much and see too much. One could only guess what Ace saw day to day or why his aged face softened toward us.

Ace let go and brushed a palm roughly over Nytro's head. I still growled and bared teeth at having been grabbed at lip but no retaliation could be taken. I knew better than most that the Ace could, even at his great age, make me dead and cold on the floor if he were pushed far enough. Ace shouted victory to us after a long pause. I figure this was purely an action on his part to benefit the younger orders of my group. The young always need reassurance even if they weren't willing to admit such a thing was true.

We eldest two ushered the cars passed in silence. Chug took the Pontiac to her nook and I decided to take the new set of wheels stolen from the brewers to an unoccupied space. Die and Tap would want first dibs on this rattle box.

I had to crawl in through the window. Both doors were welded shut and there were steel pipes bolted over her flanks. From this seat I called out to Cutter and Nytro. "Take the smeg eater on the hood to the Organic. He'll be able to prod the recipe outta him. And tighten up that gag on him unless you wanna be down a thumb like Lugnugget."

As I finished giving orders I massaged at the bloody crescent between my fingers. The little shit had bitten me after his screaming match with Shock when we stopped in the morning to distribute aqua-cola and the last crumbs of food among ourselves.

It was then as I recalled the feel of teeth cutting through skin that Ace leaned into the driver side window, eyes scanning with mild concern that everything in here was on the wrong side before he spoke.

"She won't be chuffed to see you." Ace had said, lamenting as he walked away how the brat on the hood couldn't possibly be the craftsman who distilled the pure stuff. He was just too young.

It was not untrue but it was difficult to have an opinion of age that was not skewed. The man that Nytro and Cutter hauled up from the hood and dragged away couldn't be more than twenty years old, if that. Besides Ace, my face was the oldest seen throughout these garage bays excluding the times that the full life imperators roamed here. Most of us don't know what young _is_ beyond the state of bein' really short. Around here, once you're done gettin' taller you're a grown lad and there's nothing else to it.

After parking the tin can and unloading the trunk I made my way through the garage and repair bays carved deep into the rock of our home. There was one motor roost which was extended, carved deeper into the stone than all of the others, it had to be huge in order to facilitate the sheer mass of the Immortal's War Rig. In no time I was face to face with the one I thought might be infuriated enough to put an end to my half life. This is the day that I should have guessed that war like none ever seen before was on its way.

Retelling the tale of the hunt always comes first. Customary relay of tales and information.

"If I were in your position I'd hope the kid knows more than he lets on and that he's worth more than the blood he's got in him. If not your half life is going to get a lot harder. I really don't feel up to putting the squeeze on you Notch..." She had said when I handed over the bottles and barley for her to present to the Immortal.

I was confused, so confused. The way Furiosa, the Imperator with the chrome arm, bag of nails, had looked at me with such weariness in her eyes.

"...Because I really don't care if you brought back what he was looking for or not." She added so softly as we stood by the War Rig while she gazed into the half empty crate. There was something wrong. I wasn't even a part of her crew and I knew something was terribly wrong with her.

"But I have to make it look like it matters to me. You've lived long enough to understand. You know how shit rolls down the hill. I have to make it look like I'm steaming mad that you failed at the task I set you out to do. Or else _he_ will know that I don't care any more. And I can't have that. Not now."

Yes, I knew how the hierarchy worked. The Immortal asks an Imperator, who asks a hunting crew, who brings back what Immortan Joe desires. If one link in the chain is weak and broke then everyone up the line or down suffered. But she felt the need... No, the selfish desire to tell me that she wasn't angry, that she was just goin' through the motions and that she only felt pity as she deepened the gnash in my face with the steel claws of her metal fingers.

I wrenched the steel talon away as we rolled on the oil stained stone but that only earned me a wallop from her fleshy hand.

I lashed out, kicking her away with a boot planted in her middle to belay the bizarreness of this staged attack.

Furiosa did not rise among the ranks because she was soft, was not cast down out of the Vault decades ago because she was soft, she was never soft... Ever. She was always made of leather on the outside and under that was a hundred deadly sharp points. Bag of Nails. A name forged in the pit.

She made it clear from the very beginning when she appeared among us that she was not to be treated any differently from any other war pup no matter what her suspected history was or had been. I fought her in the pits, Ace fought her in the pits. I know few old timers that had not. She didn't always win, but she never failed to draw blood. That was for damn sure.

We struggled like we had when we were young and rankless among the litters of the uninitiated and desperate to prove ourselves yet striking her felt purely defensive while her blows felt restrained.

She only did what she had to in order to make it appear that I had been punished, then when I was pinned under the stump of her half arm she breathed into my ear the most blasphemous words of all.

"Tell no one. Not even the Ace." Why would she say that? We do not keep secrets. Never.

 _That's a lie. I kept one. Just one that was shared a long time ago with a War Girl who kept up with us even after having her arm shredded._

Then she cried. Sobbed against the back of my skull like a pup freshly weaned off the tit of a milk mother.

At first I didn't know what to do. I looked for others to help make sense of the situation because I hadn't ever heard nor seen an Imperator tear to pieces at the seams like this. There was no one there to offer an explanation. Her space -shared with her rig crew- was a giant empty alcove in the solid rock of the garage loft. It was a place where _only_ her chosen black thumbs and crew could venture without invitation or official business. I should have known that something was off when I found it empty, without a single pale figure swarming the fabled war rig to tune her up for the upcoming run. There had only been Furiosa, standing solemn and still as if the twin engines and the patchwork structure of the cab were merely old comrades. To her they must be, as the Fender of Valkyrie was to me. If she had sent everyone out of this place, then there must have been something awful looming over her.

I wanted out and away from it, this place and the insanity of what had transpired. Back then I was a War Boy and nothing else. I knew not of moral conflict or desire for anything more than what my life then was. I could not understand _why_ an Imperator of great status who drove the glorious War Rig would _cry_ on me.

 _I used to whimper and leak from the eyes after the dreams when I was a pup. The sad old woman in the dreams with a knife in her hand and scars littering all of her skin. And Furi saw me more than a few times like that. It's pay back for leaning on her and blubbering that one time when we were pups. That's all it is. Right?_

I didn't know what the wives had asked of her or what terrible responsibility Angharad had placed on her shoulders. And I would not be told of it for many, many days.

I simply didn't understand then and still didn't as we scooted away from one another to sit on the floor helplessly avoiding eye contact. Her bout of tears was brief but left too much vulnerable for the both of us.

I picked myself up off the floor and left but not before waiting until she had risen to her feet as well so that I could lace my fingers together and offer a salute. Honor paid to her in this fashion was the closest thing she'd get as indication that I understood the need not to talk of this.

The easiest thing to do after that was creep out of that place like a frightened maggot and try to reclaim the parts of my existence which made sense. The grog maker's car. Yeah, I knew who would get their kicks out of that and the steering wheel column being on the wrong side. Yeah.

Tap and Die would have a shine day crawlin' all over that and making the thing run proper. Chug would surely be busy putting away our car like I had asked him to so I wouldn't have to be confronted with his questions regarding the streak of newly flowing red which slithered down my jaw or the way my left eye was threatening to swell shut. At least not until later.

Die and Tap wouldn't ask, the only things they would question were everything to do with the car and nothing of me. Furiosa and the wetness in her eyes was not something I wanted to be reminded of for a good long time. Or ever if possible.

Although our younger black thumbs usually spent their time in the deep warrens when the rest of us were away finding them was easy. All you had to do was listen for Die's high pitched voice echoing through the maze of tunnels and the gibberish that the twins babbled at each other. They had a way of talking all their own, no one else could understand it.

I found the two helping Volt and Nolan in an auxiliary garage with the much younger pups and their learning. Die and Tap appeared to be locked into some sort of disagreement as they dissected a salvaged Buick so that the little ones could see all the bits and pieces before the car was modded out proper. Tap yelped as Die finally became fed up with the bickering, jamming her wrench into back of his hand and twisting.

"If you're gonna bloody each up other when you argue then you ought to do it in the pits." I scolded but not without amusement.

All of the young black thumbs lifted their heads then. "Hey! You're not dead!"

Volt grinned and continued where Nolan stopped. "Word was that you guys got napped by the road ghosts."

The smallest of the pups shifted uncomfortably at the mention of the myth. Boys tend to go missing on the roads, more so in the past two seasons than usual but ghosts aren't to blame. Only the living could be at fault. I snorted at the garbage that had been dumped into their heads with all the gossip of evil spirits "Tales like that are just a stories for pups Volt. You don't believe in that crap, do you Die?"

The boy twin's nose crinkled and his sister shook her head sternly. "Nope, and Tap don't believe scary stories neither."

Volt rolled his eyes and plopped down onto his crawler to slide under the Buick. "There's a difference between scary stories an' shit that actually happens."

Well, he had a point. No one knew who was responsible for the crews which went missing on raids to the far north or why their chariots were always left behind. It was a real concern and a reason to be wary when you struck out northward looking for scrap metal or treasures hidden in the dust. This was especially worrisome in how these strange happenings were going on closer and closer to home in the last season. It had only happened six times. Almost enough to start thinking about putting together all four of the hunting parties looking to stir shit up out there.

 _No, thinking about that ain't why I'm here._

"Tap, Die. We got something new for ya both to work on. Jacked it from the brewers." That got um moving, shoving their way through the throng of shorter pups, crowing in excitement to each other as they followed all the way back to the primary garages.

Die and tap were ten years of age. Old enough to teach their juniors how to take apart an engine and put it back together blindfolded, but not quite old enough to join their seniors in battle. Even once they came of age they'd need to show an aptitude for doing war, if not then they may have a life as repair boys to look forward to which wasn't bad. But one generally progresses as a pup from black thumb work to training exercises then on to Fury Road as a fully fledged War Boy once he survives his first raid. Die would have a harder time of it. The few girl children that cropped up among War Pups weren't treated any differently as children, but when they got older and started looking different... That's when things got harder for them. They generally don't survive. I only know of three who became fully fledged and two of those three were from before my time, the third had gone on to become an Imperator. All knew her name.

 _There I go, reminded of Furiosa and her wet, exhausted eyes again._

Once their new charge was within sight Die set off a whoop that made my ears ring as she dashed forward. She was always the first to grab what they were after, not her brother. "MINE! I get to touch it first!"

Tap was not entirely resigned to taking the back seat all the time though. He dove for her legs and sent the both of them for the floor, Shouting unintelligible twin speak and clawing. Each was trying to reach out to brush their fingers over the grill and head lights first, because if you do that then the unspoken rule says that you have the last say as a black thumb in all the work that will be done. Die eventually won the argument, as usual. She had one boot pinning her brothers hand to the floor and a hand stretched out, barely touching her middle finger to the left side mirror. "Mine! You all saw it!"

Some boys had poked their heads up from their work to watch, even a few of the drummer pups too because this was genuinely entertaining. Die and Tap fought all the time but they never actually hurt each other in any way, so it was just a comedic break to the rhythm of the garage and chop shops. Shock and Lug on the other hand. I could hear them in the distance somewhere, on the other end of the loft raging about something. Now that would escalate if nothing was done about it, as thirsty and sun cooked as we all were tempers were bound to fray long before night fell.

"Get your fecking heel out of my hand! You want to ruin all my black fingers today!?" Tap's whining brought me back to the task I wished to set them upon.

"Think you can make this rust bucket nice and chrome? It's got some wear and tear. Whoever fixed it up and made her what she is did a half decent job. But ya can tell they didn't have all the tools and equipment we do." I supplied as Die allowed Tap to regain his feet.

Die clambered into the car through the window once she discovered that the door was no longer functional, then experimented with a steel plate that could be pulled up from the passenger side as a shield.

"Yeah, no problem. The wheel's on the left. Not the right. Kind of like the Immorta's Gigahorse." Said Die as she examined the interior.

"A car from elsewhere. What's the model Tap?" I asked, knowing the answer but wanting to hear it from them.

First he popped the hood and looked inside. "Ugh, Filthy. Profane... It's a 1969 Ford Escort but I'm going to have to sweat off every bolt and nut to get her apart."

"Well that's your problem now. If you need incentive, it might end up your car one day." I wasn't lying. They were getting close to the age where pups are to be tested out on the road. But they would have to earn it and hope there was an available chariot to claim or fight for.

I was poking my fingers around under the hood along side Tap, relaying every rattle and wheeze I'd heard from it on the return home when I heard Chug's voice.

"Valkyrie is all put away. Had to help Fork take Gizzard and Ike in. Poor sod. He was so hoping this was it... I give Ike days. If there ain't nothing else to do between now an' then. Fever will prolly take him."

I turned my head, feeling my chest tighten. Damn it. The look on his face said it all before he opened his mouth.

"What happened to your face mate? It was only a scratch before."

 _Damn your concern. And damn you for being too much like Tank._


	7. The What If Machine

_**So... Funny story. I got pretty hammered last night. Poor judgment happened. I'm bald now. Straight up bald.**_

 _ **It was really hard this morning to resist digging out the Halloween make up and dressing like a War Boy for the day. I couldn't resist the temptation. Plus I owe a good friend silly pictures for the hassle of helping me shave my skull.**_

 _ **Chug is a what if machine.**_

* * *

-Chug-

I was cooked, got a headache from hell too. That's what a nasty sunburn will do to you and if you stand in the shadows with a burn like that you'll just feel cold.

The homecoming was real shine though. I've never felt so happy to be back to this boring place. Notch seemed pleased with himself too, at least until Ace spoke up about everything we brought back. See, we'd had a very specific order, bring back the brewers so we could have safe moonshine for trade. What if this man we brought back was just a grunt with no knowledge? I understood that a decision had to be made on Notch and Ike's part so that most of us would get back before the desert wicked away all the aqua-cola from our bodies leaving us dry and dead but I wonder if maybe we hadn't tried hard enough. Notch had told us that we'd done good. That I'd done good even though I almost wrecked us twice when he let me try the wheel. I was a lancer, not so much because I was good at it in particular but because Notch was a driver and I wanted to be with him, no matter what I had to be to do that. Notch kept saying I was a shit lancer and I needed to try other things. He kept saying that I could become a good driver if I tried hard enough.

Actually I don't think my lancing is that bad. I just think he doesn't want me to be the first man to be shot at like his last lancer, Tank. I do like driving, it makes my skin tingle under the war paint. And I think maybe... Maybe I could be a driver and really like it.

But Notch really, _really_ is a fucking rotten awful lancer so it's not like we could just switch places. He needs a wheel in his hands and I don't want to leave him. If I was to become a driver then I'd have to build a car, then find a lancer of my own, and then I wouldn't be Notch's lancer anymore. I don't know what I'd like more, driving or staying with Notch.

What if when I become a driver, my lancer turns out to be a smeg eating arse-hole? What if I miss Notch too much? It's not like it would be goodbye but I wasn't sure if he'd keep me in his crew. What if I was an okay driver but not good enough to stay? What if he was just trying to figure out a way to be rid of me?

Thoughts like these consume, burn you up like kindling in a fire but I couldn't help it. Notch wasn't keen on me at first. He hadn't wanted me at all the first time I asked for partnership back when I was just an unranked fledgling from the litter of pups that slept in his crew's kip. Notch and Tank had been the ones to haul me up, bring me here to food and water and life in the Citadel. I could still remember how they argued over me. Tank was the one who insisted actually. We had the same eyes and something about that made Tank want to take me up with him on the lift. I don't remember much in the way of details. I was too little to hang onto everything that had been in my head at that time but often it's better for pups to remember little if not nothing at all.

For the rest of the waning high noon heat I wandered about finding members of our crew to assist. When Fork and Ike came up with Gizzard and Bolts with them I had to help take the wounded to the blood hall and the organic's shop. Shock and Lug gave me a hand with that. Ike had to be carried and Gizzard had to be persuaded. Gizz and Ike had sand burns from being tossed down off the speeding cargo truck by the masked maniac. Tales would be told of that weirdo for seasons to come. What a nutter. The mask that creature wore might just haunt the dreams of Bolts who was notoriously tender headed. I think maybe the mask he wore was supposed to be like a skull, but the "teeth" were made of what I _think_ were fingernails. Whole human fingernails.

As the afternoon drew on it seemed like Notch was avoiding me. He had never returned to the space where we always parked our ride, surely he'd have a mind to assess any damages and begin lining out a plan to deal with it. There were some nasty scuffs and the front end was looking pretty rust with a ram bar that had been bent in the road skirmish. Could he be annoyed with me about that? That made my stomach sour, even after daily rations were handed out and there was food in my guts. Was he angered? He didn't seem mad before we arrived home. He had seemed happy, proud even. Why was he avoiding me? I just wanted to know what I had done.

I had his bowl of grits and green stuff in my hand and a half full canteen for him under my arm. He always forgot to feed and water himself when we returned from a wild hunt. Always too busy doing this and that and reporting to this person and that person, taking care of everyone else and their bullshit until finally he realizes that he's running on fumes. He wouldn't need a top-up, just food and drink. Like many others he was a half-life but for the longest time it was just his chest that was messed up, not his blood or the sickness deep in the bones. There are a lot of reasons to call someone half-life. Anything that cuts your chances at long years in half really. If Notch inhaled too much exhaust, or road dust, or got a little too close to the holy gates and chromed himself then not long later he'd be on the floor turning blue in the lips and trying to suck air through pipes that had slammed shut. Now with the lumps on him showing up and growing slowly over the last few seasons I was anticipating the day he'd need the blood to keep going. So far he hadn't but it was only a matter of time and he wouldn't go to the Organic to get them looked at. He was too stubborn and just maybe too ready to die. There's not really much you could do for lumps but I still wished that he would just go ask about them.

Why wasn't he checking in at our lot yet? He usually let me shadow him while he made his rounds looking after the others following a homecoming.

I was soon making my way to each lot which our crew and chariots occupied, peering around to see if I couldn't spot him among the black thumbs and tired members of our group. I passed Fork, pulling out a couple dents in the Volkswagen he refused to name and kept saying was only a temporary ride. It was a beetle, which was problematic for a driver like Fork who was so tall that sitting in his own car practically put his knees up by his ears.

Deeper into our tangle of cars and scrap parts I passed by Nytro and Cutter's spot where only Cutter was standing there looking forlorn in the odd absence of Nytro. It wasn't hard to guess what the driver might be doing.

The next lot I walked by belonged to Shock and Lugnugget. A quick glance was all I needed and after that I moved the fuck on. Those two were at each others throats for something or other and if anyone stepped too close they'd get pulled into the dispute as well.

"You drank ALL of the aqua-cola you greedy filth!"

"You spilled half of yours and coughed out the other half laughing at yourself! Don't blame me for your problems you shit head! Stoned shitless idiot."

"I hate your guts!"

"My guts aren't there for you to like arse-hole!"

Soon tools and fists would be flying. It wasn't my argument so I intended to stay out of it. They were just tired and haven't quite throttled down from the war we waged the night before against Brewers and Buzzards. I knew Notch wasn't there or else he'd have sorted them out already.

"Aye CHUG!" I heard followed by a thud _clank_ thud _clank_. "You lookin' for Notch?"

It was Ross, clumping down the aisle to catch up with me on his flesh and metal legs. I turned to look. Eyes drifting down to the straps, leather and the rod of half rusted steel that started just after the bend in his knee and ended with two funny shaped hooks welded into it so that he could hitch it onto his gas pedal. See, Ross was the senior boy of another hunting and patrol crew. Getting a leg whacked off in the meat shop cause' of infection wasn't going to stop him from driving.

When our eyes met again he was smirking. What an exhibitionist. He just got off on everyone looking at it. "Yeah, You seen him?"

"He's up ahead in G4 among my boys. I let him use one of the vacant spaces on our turf to park that piece of shit for the twins to polish up."

"Right. Thanks."

We followed each other up to Ross and his boy's patch of garage. He waved a hand toward where I'd find who I was looking for before moving on to prepare his team for dusk patrol shift.

There he was. Notch was elbows deep in the Ford Escort showing Tap and Die the trouble he suspected might be found there under the hood.

"Finally caught up to you." I said, but he must not have heard me.

 _Find something else to say. Louder._

"Valkyrie is all put away. Had to help Shock and Nugget take Ike in. Poor sod. He was so hoping this was it... I give him days mate. If there ain't nothing else to do between now an' then. Fever will prolly take him."

He wouldn't supply me with a response. He just turned his head to look at me, slate hued eyes looking even more colorless than usual. Red had run like a slick down his jaw and onto his collar bone. My guts did a back flip. That gnash on his face hadn't been so bad before. Did Furiosa shred him?

"What happened to your face mate? It was only a scratch before." I may have let the worry seep into the question too thickly.

Notch's brows lowered. He wasn't happy, something must have gotten deep under his skin after our return. He seemed to shrug off any further questioning from me as he wiped his hands and wrung his greasy fingers through a rag from his pocket. "It's nothin'. Come here."

I wanted to know what had happened; more was buggin' him than the tear on his face but he wouldn't say. Maybe after he eats he'll tell me then.

He extended a hand and at first I thought that he would reach for the bowl I'd brought him but instead he snatched my face in both hands and shoved up my lip with his thumb. "Gums are white. You better go get a top-up before you cark it."

I twisted away, feeling frustration burning holes in my head. As he let go I tried to rear back as if to ram him (since my hands were full) but instead stumbling backwards over my own boots and almost ending up on my ass. You really do get too accustomed to feeling like rust. I was only just now realizing how fuzzy in the head I was feeling but I regained my balance. "Would you park whatever stupid pride or bullshit hang-up you're on about? That thing on your face needs staples!"

The moment I had finished spewing angered words Notch moved forward like a coiled snake striking out for a kill bite. It was too quick for a boy in need of blood to counteract.

I was spun around and pushed down by his grip on my head and his knee in my spine. The bowl that had been in my hands clattered to the floor and slid three feet into a tool box, creating a splatter of grits and slimy green food stuffs but I wouldn't notice the mess until after the altercation. What had my attention now was the way he had me pinned up against the stolen car. Six inches to the left and the rail road spike welded on under the driver side window would have been buried in my guts. I'd feel and see a nice purple bruise on my brow tonight but for now the adrenaline had me and I didn't feel anything but how tight his hands gripped me. His breath hot on the back of my ear too as he hissed.

"Unless you want a few more staples in your own head, drop this and just leave it alone... And I don't take orders from pups like you." It came from him like growl so I silenced my thoughts, keeping them caged behind clenched teeth.

There were no more words before he left. Only after he was out of sight did one come free.

"Tosser."

It escaped in a whisper as I touched at the scar on my skull. It felt cruel for him to bring up the stables that held my scalp together. Long ago I'd felt so stupid falling off a boarding wagon during pup-hood on a training run. Got scalped on a passing pursuit crew's side mirror as I had gone down. It was a scar I hated because it was for a stupid mistake; which I made a lot of.

"What crawled up his arse?" Die leaned out of the driver side window and scratched at the back of my head as if to try and encourage me back to a standing position. I didn't feel like it, so I just turned and sat leaning back against the tire looking at the mess from dropping the bowl.

"I don't care what's got him hot in the skull. Don't fucking care." I muttered, to which Tap made an odd noise in his throat before speaking.

"You look like you _should_ probably go to the sick hall for some blood. We're gonna pass it on our way to the wheel shrines for before bed prayers. You can come with me and Die, yeah?"

I felt my shoulders lift and droop. I didn't care. Something hurt but I couldn't pinpoint where the feeling was coming from. "I think I'll just be headed to the bunks once I'm back up. I can wait til tomorrow morning for a blood bag. Prolly crowded in there anyway."

I might have gotten their murmurs of disagreement to listen to if shouting and the sounds of a brawl in the aisle between rows of cars hadn't invaded our ears. A small crowd had gathered around Shock and Lug as their squabbling escalated into a knock down and drag out. We emerged from the repair lot and joined the circle of spectators. Ross was holding up two oil pans full of personal effects used as gambling tokens and shouting "BETS HERE! PLACE UM HERE!" A pile of scrap metal and trinkets had also begun gathering at his boot and peg leg for winnings as everyone wagered goods on who would be the victorious one.

I stood on my toes to see over Fork's shoulder. Lugnugget had Shock under him, attempting to strangle him into submission. Soon the half feral boy turned the odds to his favor with his thumbs trying to hollow out Lug's eye sockets. They broke apart because Lug had to let go lest he be stricken blind. Shock swung a fist, missed, and they were on the ground again grappling for control of the others limbs.

"I'm betting for Nugget." Chirped Tap as he fished around in his pockets for something to wager. "Who do you think has the win Die?"

"Shock's got this one." The little War Girl said as she brandished a handful of bottle caps to bet.

I couldn't help but to look for Notch among the crowd. Was he here? Trying to break up the fight? Nah, as fuming as he was for whatever reason he'd be placing a bet, not trying to keep peace.

I didn't find him and I didn't bother to watch the fight all the way through. I slunk off to the place where we bunked down at every days end. Once there I yanked off my boots to toss toward the dead end of the hall we occupied at night deep in the rock and crawled up to the ledge where Notch and I always slept back to back. It was cool and quiet and I was alone. It felt rusty and soothing at the same time to be my only company. Soon the drip, drip, drip of the damp rock sweating out underground moisture lulled me into a half sleep.

-0-

When next I opened my eyes I turned my head to find that Notch wasn't there. First came selfish relief, then worry. I rolled to look out over the ledge and found that most every member of our crew was curled into their sleep spots.

Our sleep turf was just a corridor that had long ago been dug out of the stone but the work had been abandoned, leaving a dead end. Over generations this had been a spot that many a War Boy had used and over time those determined to make the space more hospitable had carved out hollows and benches in the walls to lay down. Real bunks existed elsewhere, but there were much too many War Boys to fit into the barracks. Some crews fought over the Barracks but Notch never saw a point in challenging the occupants when we had a decent spot of our own. A real cot would be shine though.

I wondered how long I'd had my eyes closed and how deep into sleep I had drifted. This got me thinking on how late it must be if most everyone but the wounded were here. I leaned out a little further to count heads.

Shock and Lugnugget were peacefully -or as close to peace as they could get- asleep on their ledge of low hanging rock that jutted out of the wall, lined with rags to soften the scrape of the damp stone. They were all bruised up from their tussle but clearly they hadn't busted each other up too bad or else they'd be in the sick hall all night. Shock twitched, then jerked in his sleep and managed to kick Lugnugget hard enough to illicit a grunt. Lug flailed an arm and the sound of palm slapping once into flesh cut through the silence. They even seemed to fight in their sleep.

Ike was absent, still at the organic's receiving blood transfusions and sleeping off the nasty road rash he had. At this point I wasn't sure if Ike would be strong enough to ever truly heal again.

Fork was curled against Lugnugget's back, and behind him Bolts shivered and chattered his teeth with a fever. Fork groaned, rolling over to throw an arm over the younger boy and whispering something which sounded abrupt and hard, but was more than likely intended to be comforting. Cutter and Nytro were curled up at the entrance to our kip, keeping warm under an oversized jacket found inside the grog brewer's car. They were probably all tangled up together under the tattered denim of the coat.

The twins were still awake and whispering nonsensical things in their nest of rags and scrap and other young black thumbs.

There were also much smaller pups everywhere. They were crowded in piles between most everyone. Two dozen or so chose to bed down here where they felt safe. They were also hopeful for recruitment.

I looked down to Cutter and Nytro, wondering if they were asleep yet. "Hey." I whispered. "You seen Notch before turnin' in?"

Cutter opened one eye to look up blearily, shaking his head no as Nytro shifted closer to his lancer for reprieve from the cold night air creeping deep into the warrens.

I rolled back toward the wall, pressing my forehead to the stone and fighting the thoughts that warred with my desire to sleep some more.


	8. Awkward

I wasn't 100% comfortable with posting this here. But I've seen a lot worse on this site and this isn't at all detailed, Shiv is mostly just aware of what's happening (and somewhat mortified by it) and that's pretty much it.

P.S. Crypt is gross, you've been warned. If the suggestion that War Boys might trade things for sexual favors makes you uncomfortable, then you might want to skip this chapter alltogether, because it's not even that important.

* * *

-Shiv-

They shaved me with a machine that buzzes loudly. It hurt when they ran it over the gash in my head.

At least the skeleton of a boy that replaced the hairy one had the decency to clean out the head wound and pull it shut with a chunk of metal that he called a staple. But I knew it wasn't. I'd seen real medical grade staples and the thing he used to close up the cut hardly resembled that. It was too thick and probably not clean enough to touch an open wound either.

"Kennel him after I have the sample."

The scrawny one must have been the hairy one's assistant or something. His name was Cripe, Chip, Chibs... Something starting with a 'Kuh' or 'Chuh' sound I think. I hadn't been doing very much listening so I couldn't be too sure of what I had heard.

After the shaving and flesh mending was over the scrawny creature had ordered the other, notably thicker built dead men to keep a tighter hold on me. He stuck me and collected my precious red stuff in a finger sized glass, taking it away and leaving me to the mercy of the others. They pulled me up off the table, carrying me by the wrists and ankles like a sacrificial animal toward a dark corner of the dimly lit room. When I saw my destination I felt panic spring to life within me. It was a wooden crate with slats for handle holes and bands of steel wrapped around to fortify its strength.

I twisted and flailed till every fifer of muscle burned like acid. My throat was also ripped raw by the shrieking which ensued.

I was stuffed into that foul container which stunk like mildew and the musky body odor of the box's previous occupant. The last thing I heard was a padlock clicking shut. It was much too familiar a feeling even after all these years spent with Brew, trying to heal and forget what it had been like where we came from. This was just like my cage In- No. I didn't want to remember.

No amount of kicking or screaming had helped me avoid the confines of the box. Resisting only gave them incentive to put the apparatus they called 'Scolds Bridle' onto my head and into my mouth before cramming me inside.

The bridle bit down on my tongue and forced my jaw to hang open. This too was held on with a pad lock. It was the first thing I touched and pulled at in the darkness. The box was so cramped that I could hardly wriggle my arms up around my head to scratch at the straps. It didn't help that my wrists were tied. I guessed that this was the punishment for all of the snarling and profanity.

 _They bound him with the things we cannot see or hear. The foot step of a cat, the breath of a fish, the beard of a woman, the sinew of a bear, the root of a mountain and the spittle of a bird. If you can see and feel your bindings, you can break them._

Finally, an almost comforting thought. I wore my thumb nails down to the quick trying to wear through the twine they bound my hands with and cramped every finger in the process. With time and work the ties frayed apart and I had feeling back in my fingertips.

I twisted in the box, inch by inch scooting until I was in a position to push one end with my shoulders and the other end with my feet. I tried to push it apart but the steel and wood didn't bend nor so much as creak for all the effort. I couldn't tell if I was weak from dehydration, or injury, or grief but I knew these were plenty enough reason to be listless.

I tried not to cry. Brew always hated it when we cried because we had to be strong and carry on.

 _There's no time for feeling sorry and afraid. We look forward, we keep moving. When I kick the bucket, you two are going to carry on without me. Got it?_

Brew should have guessed that there might come a time when only one of us was left. Cause anything could happen. I hope my bastard old fart of a mentor understood that it would be damn near impossible for one of us to carry the torch alone. If they were dead I'd never be able to stand it in that cavern bunker we'd made into a home. I would never be able to handle living in the place without them, it would be stupid to leave it but too painful to stay there. _If_ I managed to escape from this pruno-hole.

Here among the heretics I'd be a slave. What's better? Internal torment or external? Does it matter which? I was fucked either way.

I heard boots thudding nearer, nearer, then fading away. Left to right. Right to left. Whoever had returned to this room had a pacing habit. It was annoying, and a somewhat toxic feeling swelled in my chest. I didn't want to know anything about these _animals_ and yet I was curled up in this box learning -as if I was interested- the habits of some fuck-shit who worked here. I just wanted to go home. I could hear glass tinkling and the sighs of who ever was doing their work just outside of my box. The toe of a boot must have caught the edge of my confinements and jarred me inside. I grunted and growled, doing my best to kick from the inside in protest of everything. The War Boy outside retaliated, kicking the corner of the box and rattling me inside again.

"Quiet down or I'll give you something to whine about."

It sounded like the skinny one with the weird name that I couldn't remember. I was getting curious. Brew always told Whimp and I that curiosity may be dangerous, but nothing ventured nothing gained. I could practically hear my master's voice muttering the words low in my head as I twisted around in the box again toward the faint light that entered through a handle hole. I had to crunch myself up awkwardly to see through.

I hadn't been paying much attention to the room around me while I was being 'sheered' as they'd called it. Now that I was peeking out at it I could see that weirdly enough the place was very similar in here to the makeshift infirmary set up we had back home in the cave. It had more in the way of supply, but it was notably filthier. I could have supposed that the disorganization and grime might be from heavy traffic. How many War Boys are there here? Hundreds? They're all child soldiers, so they probably end up here in this room and frequently covered in blood. There was a table, a small machine set up on a low stool by the generator and it bizarrely resembled Whimper's ink gun. Yards and yards of tubing looped in coils hung on the walls. Everything was lit by torch.

There was also a pile of human hair in the corner. Not all of that could have been mine, so I shuddered at the sight. That didn't belong in an infirmary where people get cut up and sewn shut. I wondered how much of my own hair had been sealed in or ground down into my head wound. I was probably looking forward to a helacious infection. Nothing about this room was terribly sanitary, sad to say.

 _Oh look. There's the scrawny spawn of hel that cleaned up your busted head and stole all your hair._

Maybe the voice was a ghost. Probably not, it was likely just a symptom of mourning. If that was the case then I'd probably start seeing Whimper throwing his hand signals before my starry eyes soon too. Whimper was always non verbal because of his stutter. Hard not to drift into thought of the fallen. Anyway, there was the rail armed bastard that shaved me and seemed to kick my box around with his clumsy feet every time he passed.

"Hey. Crypt." I heard in a deeper and familiar voice from beyond what little peripheral vision the hand slot allotted me. So that was his name.

I saw the medic's assistant turn halfway through his pacing path to look back as another walking dead man approached. They spoke lower than I could strain to hear, but the malicious grin that spread on Crypt's lips made me uneasy. He turned away and disappeared into another corridor in the tunnel work. When he returned he had a fist sized glass bottle in his hand, brandishing it from beyond the much taller and hardier looking War Boy's reach.

"You know the drill Nytro. You want it for your pal then you're gonna have to work for it. Stole it from the boss Organic's private cabinets. So it will cost... Also, I wanna strike a deal with Cutter when he's feelin' up to it. Lock it in now so I'm first in the line for a new cut-up... Hell, I'll let you watch me suck him off for it."

My mouth tried to form words in a whisper around the apparatus, smacking wetly and sucking in air around the thing clamped down on my jaw. _What the fuck._

"I'm not a rusty secretary like _you_ Crypt. I don't make his deals for him."

"Keep talking like that with your mediocre mouth and I'll just put this back where I found it, _dick breath_."

Nytro curled back his lips in a snarl and lurched at Crypt like an animal. Fisting his narrow shoulders and pushing him back till his knees had to bend around the edge of my box as he was forced to sit on it. Crypt's ass crashed down on top of me inside, making the wooden lid tremble worryingly.

"Just pull down your pants already smeg." Nytro ground out and fell on his knees just in front of the box, blocking out my tiny portal to look through with the broadness of his torso.

For the briefest time I falsely hoped that they were just going to fight it out. No. Apparently sexual favors are valid for trade, even when it came to apparent medical supplies. Or it could have been drugs. I don't know or care what was in the bottle.

It was like a bad car wreck but up close, not viewed safely through long lookers at a distance. For a time I couldn't not watch.

All I could see was Nytro's throat and shoulders moving as his head bobbed and the occasional clench of his abdomen when the act set off a gag reflex. Crypt's legs must have been draped either side of my peep hole as he sat on top of me in my prison.

This was just... so screwed up. What helish nightmare was I failing to wake up from?

If I'd been a little less mindfucked by the thing I was watching, I'd have kind of laughed at Nytro. Or maybe not. I don't know, I had a lot of hate in me for them but I guess you just don't wish dicks on people either. S'not right.

It kept on going, and going. Soon they were both making quite an awful lot of noise at each other. Although I was sure that Crypt was blatantly taking advantage of the other War Boy in some way it seemed as if they were both beginning to enjoy the contact. Or at least Nytro was forcing himself to appear enthusiastic. The sighs and groans were low grumbles that I could feel in my rib cage at this disgustingly intimate position near them.

Witnessing this was just as upsetting as it was morbidly fascinating. I had never actually been with another person like that. Ever. The curiosity toward it was hard to quell.

Once shame took hold I made an attempt to twist away from the peep hole and turn into the darkness. Someone kicked the box and made me startle.

"Keep it quiet in there slag."

The space was too small to move without kicking around and throwing elbows into the wood noisily. I froze, still pressed close to that handle hole.

They knew I was in here listening. For all they knew I could be beating off to it but they gave not a shit about my presence. The day wouldn't stop. everything just kept getting worse, more outrageous so I closed my eyes and made every effort to block it out.

Oh merciful All Mother. He was crying. I could hear the muffled sobs. It was only when my eyes popped open and drenched my lids with wetness that I realized it was me. I was whimpering and puffing out shudders around the bridle shoved down my mouth.

"You hear that?"

I looked toward the hole, discovering in the vile possible way that the pair had come to completion of their deal. Nytro pressed his lips suddenly into the handle hole and spat. It was a thick slime, not thin spittle.

Shock and horror held me fast for a second, maybe two. Then anger, more tears, kicking and thrashing inside as I processed what had just happened. If I ever got out of this box, Nytro would be the first one I'd come after.

"That's for the black eye my lancer's sporting now. Thanks to you brewer." He cackled at me, shaking the box and echoing my raging sounds like a taunt.

"Leave the box boy alone Nytro. Not your responsibility now. You got what you came for so just go. Look after your mate."

* * *

So... Yeah. Shiv got War Boy spunk spat into his face. I'm disgusting and should be punished. Rage at me if you must. Shit only gets worse from here.


	9. Cruelty is common fare

_**Like I said before. Crypt is really gross. But he's not inherently evil, maybe just really, really numb inside.**_

 _ **In my head they all have their back stories and all of them are pretty awful so you're just going to have to roll with it and be open to the idea of interpreting these characters in your own way. I'd get nowhere if I wrote through everyone's entire history even though I wish I could.**_

 _ **Welp. Say hello to Crypt. Love him or hate him. I haven't decided which yet myself so have fun figuring out where you stand.**_

 _ **Also, I figure Max could have been there several days to weeks before the wifes ran off, seeing as they had his car totally fixed for the chase by the time the women escaped.**_

* * *

-Crypt-

What a delightful face to have witnessed wrapped around my gear shift.

Nytro was always good looking, he had one of those faces that looked almost kind but he wasn't. No one is kind unless they want something from you. That's the first lesson you will learn in this life. Everyone is a pewling spawn of the unkind world and the places we come from are reflected in us.

Still, Nytro didn't need to rile the boy in the box like he had. The poor whelp had been tossed around and bruised enough for the afternoon and still had worse yet to look forward to.

"That's for the black eye my lancer's sporting now. Thanks to you brewer." He growled at the not quite broken thing curled up inside, grasping the corners of the trunk and rattling it as he mocked the prisoner's cries of anger.

"Leave the box boy alone Nytro. Not your responsibility now. You got what you came for so just go. Look after your mate." I knew Cutter would be the only thing that could get Nytro on a path of thinking that was merciful. The whole reason he came here to deal was for something to ease Cutter's painful mouth. Nytro was kind to Cutter because he needed a lancer with decent aim.

See, every kindness has a reason. Nothing is unconditional.

Nytro left without another word, carefully tucking his rewards into a pocket that wasn't full of tools and things that would crack the glass. Once he was out of sight I turned back to my work table. A hide to be salted once more and worked till it was soft and mailable. There's no game left in these lands. No roos to shoot or boar to eat. The only beasts available to practice the art on were the poor unfortunate corpses that the Organic left in his wake.

It made for a useful hobby. Everything goes to use, even pastimes that make them all squeamish. At least it kept the worst of them away so I could be left alone. No one wanted to be stuffed and propped up atop the buttes as a garden scarecrow, although the green thumbs appreciated my work.

I considered getting back to business tanning the human hide on my work bench, but soft cries made the traitorous thing behind my ribs ache.

I'd never get anything done today, not with that poor beastie growling and whimpering in his confinements. I wouldn't have had to kennel him if he had only cooperated. Life is easier when you let it happen to you. Resistance gets you blood and pain. I should know.

The noise of another boy's heavy pockets and belts clanking muddied up my thoughts. A new distraction. I turned my eyes toward the passage. Ah, Notch.

This exchange was different. It was a part of my job, not my hobbies. The boy of legendary luck needed sutures in his bloody face. He just jerked a thumb at it as if I wasn't already turning to fetch the needle and cat gut.

Notch was an easy patient. No wriggling or wincing up and stretching the wound with his cringe as I worked. His eyes were swarming with secret things in far away places though.

"You look unsettled." I murmured, pulling the knot tight and threading the needle through each side of the gnash for the next stitch.

His eyes quit their hollow stare and met my own, brows pinning themselves low and creating a crease between them. "Just fix my face."

"Where's Chug? He should be fawning and hovering as if you were some newly shorn pup." It was an honest question. Ever since Tank went dead and cold that younger, wonky eyed boy had trailed along behind Notch like a morning shadow.

"He's busy."

"You're lying."

"And we'll leave it at that." He growled now. A warning not to press any further.

He was gone almost as quickly as he appeared. Leaving me once more to my thoughts. There was a crack in the wall where by movement of the sun's ribbon of light the time could be told. Soon it would come time for shift changes. Noon patrol would return and the evening shift would rev-up.

My hobbies would have to wait once more. The table had to be cleaned and the counters prepared with dressings for potential injuries. Blood bags would be counted and rotated in case they returned needy for body fuel.

I looked to the box. Curiously the occupant was peeking out again. My, what lovely big brown eyes. It was too bad that the sheering had been necessary. The hair on his head had been that same warm shade, but a head lice epidemic among the blood bags and treadmill rats was beginning to get out of hand. Soon I'd have to convince a hoard of War Boys to bring their razors and help me in a mass hair cutting. They'd protest the idea of wasting time on the lowly workers right up until the problem grew so urgent that they started finding lice living in their clothes and eye brows.

I left the room still thinking about the softness of those purty brown curls. They reminded me of what I'd had on my head back when I was a wee lad. I'd kept a bit of the brewer's locks. I had tied it tight with loose thread from the tears in the prisoners slacks and stuffed the bundle down into my pocket. Any time my fingers brushed it when I searched for the right tool or something to mark numbers with as I worked in the blood hall, It inspired a happy little memory of what it had felt like to have hair.

Blood bags were given their rations and a sip of addictive aqua-cola. Some were tucked away safe in their cages to recover and make more blood. I watched as the Boss Organic treated burns and sand rash on a couple boys from Notch's crew. I meandered around after there was nothing else to do. This was just about the time of day when I usually started feelin' like crap. Same shit, different day.

An empty space on the stone benches was an invitation to fall into listlessness. Earlier I'd taken the blood sample from the box boy and found that we matched. Maybe I could siphon off a little from him since the other type A blood bags were either in recovery or already giving blood. Nah, I could put up with the listlessness. Box boy needed to save his strength for later when his interrogation begins. They'll ask nice like at first, but refusal will earn him pain and harsh convincing.

I lay in that space that had been so inviting and let my eyes close, still listening for the drum beat that would indicate when the patrol teams switched out.

At some point the Boss man kicked at my boot to rouse me. "Get up ya lazy mongrel. Don't ya hear the drums? Patrol is switching out and they brought us a present."

"Blood bag?"

"Right-o. Feral. They're tyin' him down and shaving his hairy arse now. Go get a test strip and type him. I've got ink to drill into his hide."

When the Boss Organic clumped away I pulled myself up and rolled my head till the soothing crackle alleviated the ache there in the neck. Then I stood, wobbling for a moment when the dizziness surged through my brain. "Ought to be chucking lances an' dyin historic. Not scurrying behind a fat, entitled arsehole... Never had the arms for it though, nor the skill for healin' machines. Just mending meat and bones. Could be worse."

I made my way back to the place we dealt with new acquisitions and I cringed when I saw the feral. What a mess, totally filthy and I could smell him from across the room too. The War Boys assigned to assist in the sick ward for the day were chaining him now as his eyes darted all over. I glanced to the box were the brewer was caged. He was still peeking out, eyes now locked onto the feral. Every chance the new bloodbag had he'd growl and jerk his limbs, testing the strength of the men holding him down. They'd shout to keep still, that did little. I fetched the test strips and swiped across his bloody head for a sample. Not long later as I scrutinized the results the Organic had himself set up to start labeling him.

"You've got a universal donor boss. High octane feral blood. I'll be off then to look after the blood hall in your stead."

I was gone not an hour before I heard further shouts echoing through the warrens, howls of rage, laughter of the Kamikrazee.

I'd hear later on that the feral had given them quite the run. The room was cleared by the time I got there, with the exception of the Boss Organic rolling on the floor holding onto his generous gut.

"That feral give you a good wallop?"

"Shaddup Crypt!" He spat, and I snickered as I turned to look at the handle hole where the boxed brewer peered out at us. I sighed, feeling a frown contort my dry lips.

"Once they bring that feral back and you're done with him, what are we doing about this one?"

"Whipper is back with the returnin' patrol. Well let him have his fun if the prisoner don't agree to get workin' on the grog right away."

My heart bled for the creature locked inside the wooden kennel, for what he'd have to live through now. I covered the handle hole he peered through with a rag so that I wouldn't have to look at his pleading eyes anymore.

I watched when the boys brought back the raggedy man but I didn't stay long after that. I knew that after they were done with that feral they'd interrogate the brewer clan boy in the box, and it wouldn't be shine or chrome to watch. Most people don't realize that just because I'm alright tinkering with the dead it doesn't mean I'm fine watching the still living get toyed with. The fat boss knew I hated this part, but he didn't give a damn. I'd be waiting around the corner tonight, and afterward cleaning up whatever mess Whipper left behind since the Organic certainly wouldn't bother to do it.

Whipper was an Imperator. When he passed me to enter the room we exchanged looks. He smiled at me and if my eyes alone could kill, he'd have been dead on the spot. There was history between us, none of it good.

There I sat outside the room in the night, listening as they pulled him out of his confines. He didn't make a sound when they first hoisted him out, he might have been asleep. Didn't take long though. When asked if he could make the fine spirits his clan was known for he said yes, but told them that he'd take the knowledge with him to the afterlife without sharing it. Thus began the work of persuasion.

From the sounds, grunts, shrieks, yips, ragged panting and muffled howls, I could tell what they were doing to him and when their tactic changed. One by one, they pulled out his fingernails, asking for cooperation between each pull. He refused again and again. I sucked on my own fingertips, sympathizing with him.

Next, they hobbled him, breaking toes individually. When he spat at them, cursed them to the fate of some heathen god, it was decided that this may take longer than any of us wished. The organic left the room and the brewer boy to Whipper's mercy. Whipper does not know the meaning of such a word. When he was finished the Imperator left the room grinning with satisfaction. Looking to where I sat just outside as he fastened his belts.

"He'll crack by morning. I'd bet my life on it." He said, and then left.

It was my turn with the prisoner, but my intentions were not cruel.


	10. Deals and Ulterior Motives

_**One more chapter from Notch's perspective, and I'm going to end Act 1 and open Act 2 with Ace demanding to know what Furiosa had done.**_ _**Yep yep.**_

* * *

-Shiv-

I wanted to die, to curl up at the edges of this room hewn from the rock and just shrivel up, maybe reopen the cut on my head and bleed out on the floor. I didn't have the wherewithal to tell where I was, Blind-eye's fortress or the nest of the Dead Men. Didn't matter, I'd be suffered the same fate at either place apparently. Just a __thing__ that they extract valuable fluids from or a place to dump it into. What's the difference really? Things hurt that shouldn't, things Brew promised would never happen to me again.

I didn't notice that I wasn't alone, or maybe I didn't care until he touched me at the shoulder.

I wanted to strangle something, beat somebody to a pulp and whoever was there, they'd do just fine. In retrospect, it might have been a good thing that I hardly had the strength left to do more than rock forward onto my knees and fall on the person that had come to see if I was still alive. It felt like I was fighting with everything I had, clawing, swinging, biting. But every attack was thwarted with ease, all the while the other body in the dark __shushed__ at me. Like some freakish attempt to dismiss the agony I felt and comfort it too.

I when I became too tired to move and my limbs turned to rubber the other body pulled away. I was left on the floor in a pile for a short moment, something warm and smelly was thrown over my back -a moldy blanket- and a feverishly hot hand lifted my chin and offered something cool, wet and clean to my lips. I was scolded over the thin river that trickled down my chin as I drank, yet at the same time fingernails scratched gently through the blunt ends of fuzz left on my head. I was confused, and shaking, and afraid, but exhausted.

Whoever was with me in the dark, they stayed and told me to sleep. I'd stir and fight the drooping of my eyes with the fear I still felt worming under my skin, but the human presence nearby would continue to insist that I rested, with enough repetition I had no choice but to obey.

 _ _Mist swept over the craggy rock and the color gray painted the world in hues of old death. The only sound echoing through the ruins were the wails of the final carrier of the word, of the history, the stories. Brew yodeled into the night, singing the old songs or sometimes screaming like a maniac in order to fight back the deafening silence here.__

 _ _The stone totems had faces and all of them looked sad, every single one. The kid in my arms cried and whimpered, frightened by our grief stricken savior and the ghosts which haunted the fog.__

It was just a dream. An old memory playing out in my head to the tune of my own grief. although it didn't truly frighten me it was still vivid enough to jerk me awake.

"Easy now brewer."

The person who had been there before was there again when I woke. There was an oil lamp burning and I could see a body nearby that was much too pale, painted white. Fear crept back in around me. It was Crypt that was with me, the one that had demanded a blowing from another War Boy in exchange for something or other. I didn't want to be in the same room with one of those monsters, then again who else could I have been hoping for? Some normal human? A wretched? My mentor Brew?

As I put some distance between us I came to notice that I was fully clothed again, my fingers bandaged carefully and my broken feet wrapped tightly. There was, however, an iron shackle around my left wrist and a chain that lead to the scrawny War Boy's belt.

 _No escape._

"Don't be afraid. I don't play with the living." He said as he pressed a needle made from bone through bits of leather and stitched together the carefully worked pieces.

"Why should I believe one of old Joe's walking corpses? So far everyone I've met here has fucked me metaphorically, including you... And that one with the grease on his face- Literal."

"Whipper. You know, if you had cooperated, that could have been avoided."

"Go fuck yourself."

"Don't tempt me. Being yelled at is legit one of my turn-ons so tread carefully. You should also be far more cautious in how you speak of our father, the Immortan. Some won't tolerate a blasphemer for even a moment. If Rictus were to hear you call his Pa __old__... Well, I wouldn't have any choice but to get a mop to clean up whatever is left over once he's through thrashing you."

I didn't honor him with a response. Instead, I picked at a spot on the slacks I wore. They were mine, but tears and holes I remember being there before had been patched up. Did this War Boy do that? Why? Before I could ask he was talking again.

"You know. If you agree to make the spirits and if you do well at it, you might be provided a small crew like the Organic Mechanic has to help him do his work. A few pups to help you, or maybe a War Boy that is no longer welcome with the war parties. It's not a bad life, being useful and rewarded for it... As a matter of fact, I'd ask for a transfer if you decided to do this, I've never had much love for the work stitching wounds closed."

I laughed at his futile attempt to convince me, it came in a wheeze and ended in a dry cough but I'm sure he understood just how fucking funny I found the whole business. Like I'd give a shit about what a demon like Joe Moore would furnish me with if I bent to his will. I'd rather die and join my brother and master to be fully honest. You know, it felt right to offer a bitter joke to Crypt, he seemed like the type to have a grim sense of humor.

"You know what? If you can bring me that Whipper bastard's sack on a fucking necklace? Then I'll make whatever the Hel you want. I'll make friggin' martinis and pink cocktails if you can make __that__ happen."

Crypt grinned, the light of the oil lamp playing on his features and making him look older, dangerous, like a snake. "Be careful what you ask for."


	11. Legacy

_**Finally, I can put an end to this SINGLE day in the Citadel and forge ahead to after the sandstorm. Fuckin' finally. You have no idea. I'm crying right now. I'm just so happy the introductory chapters are OVER! Now I can get to the real story. Finally... Oh V8 thank you.**_

* * *

-Notch-

Maybe I shouldn't have been so hard on Chug. It wasn't his fault, he was just being himself. Still, he needed to learn when and when not to pry and he certainly needed to remember his place. I was the second eldest and he wasn't much more than a pup. I didn't need him to tell me when to get a slice stitched closed.

He looked like him, behaved like him too, but he was __not__ Tank. He didn't have the right to tell me what to do. Still, I wandered to the sick hall and sat down for one of the Organic's assistants to patch my face and slap a poultice onto my swollen eye so that I might be able to see out of it tomorrow. I'd gone down for treatment more out of guilt than any real care that my face looked like shit after what Furiosa did to it.

I was long over the shock of what had happened in the War Rig garage. It wasn't bothering me anymore, not after taking out my bullshit on my long dead Lancer's doppelganger. Looking at Chug was like looking back in time at Tank when he'd been young. It was hard to know whether to cherish or loathe the reminder of who I'd come up with. Couldn't blame Chug for that either, though.

I returned to the garage later on, finding my second lancer absent and no black thumb pups near my lot. Being allowed time alone was probably a good thing as I delved into mindless work tightening nuts and bolts and fine tuning the war chariot I drove. I found Chug's ass print in the dust on the roof as I wiped down every surface with a rag. He must have been sitting there waiting around for a good long time before he wandered into Ross's patch of garage looking for me. Damn it. Why did that brat have to be so ill-suited to this life? Too soft, too kind, too much like Tank.

The rest of our crew avoided me, probably hearing about what I had done to Chug and that I was in no mood for further annoyance. I overheard talk that Shock and Lug had bloodied each other up. Not that big a surprise but it was another source of tension. Surely __someone__ other than myself could have taken it upon themselves to keep those two idiots out of the sick ward or differ their dispute to the fury pits where such struggles are settled properly.

Soon there was nothing left that I could do without a second set of hands. The ram bar needed to be taken off and pounded back into shape on an anvil and when I let Chug drive on the way back the front end ate it in a deep dip as we rolled back up onto the road between Gas Town and home. I'd been driving the brewer's Escort but I saw the way Valkyrie's Fender damn near lost her front bumper in the sand. The alignment needed fixed and I wanted Chug to check the suspension too since that was his fault. That's how you learn, you pick up your tools and you fix your mistakes.

I stepped back and had a good look at her. The way the front right corner was sagging, it looked like Chug was going to have his work cut out for him the next day. As long at it got fixed by his hands, then all would be forgiven. Damn him, can't stay angry.

The torches were being put out. War Boys were filing into their bunks, and I was just lingering under a lamp trying to find something else to do in here. I pulled off the steering wheel and made my way down the halls, passed the sick ward and hung my wheel on its peg at the shrine. It had a cat skull in the center, all of the teeth had been missing when Tank picked it up and stuck it in my hands like a gift. I'd shaped bits of metal into fangs to replace the poor cat's chompers and glued them into the holes before re-gifting it back to him. Then Tank dumped it into my lap a second time after fashioning a wheel around it and turning it into the centerpiece.

I had to pull in a deep breath and force it out so that I could expel the memory. Thinking about shit like that turns you soft and if you die soft, you go nowhere.

The passages and tunnels were dark, damp muck squelched and sloshed under my boots as I made the walk to the deeper reaches where my crew slept. By now they'd all be down there, except Ike and Gizz. I ground my teeth, we would be missing Zinny and Wingnut too. Scavengers got their bodies before we could fetch them.

Tomorrow we'd mourn them, Ace would be there to perform the ritual. Gizzard and Bolts had survived, they would be promoted and need to start figuring out their war chariot situation. Either build one or fight for one someone else already built. I'd also need to select four new potentials from the rankless pups waiting to be noticed. All this shit had to be done in the wee hours of the morning before I dragged the whole lot to the clay chamber for a re-paint.

The original crew was me and Tank, Ike and Dun, Gabriel and Kipper, Bird and John-boy, Reese and Phil and finally Hoobie and his sick wagon always full of boys ready die chromed instead of burning out in the sick ward. Shit changes. Only Ike and I left now, and Ike was wasting away fast. Nowadays names like that are hard to come by, instead of the ones they came with the pups are given new names in honor of holy car parts or weaponry. I had another name once, something that lingers on the tip of my tongue and begs to be said. It started with __Fff__ sound. Doesn't really matter. I'm Notch. I'm the second oldest next to Ace. I'm a War Boy. I'm not a history man whose job it is to remember.

Some passages had become black as pitch. The only way one could navigate in the middle of the night was if he knew the way like he knew the roads outside these walls. A body brushed against my shoulder in the darkness. The reaction was instant, natural. At night, even your brothers could become a threat. A danger to themselves and everyone around them if they were one of the ones who got up and walked when the fevers took hold.

It was a lancer, I could tell that much without sight. He was broad and moved well, very nearly reversing my grip and pushing me back against the wall instead of being pinned himself.

"Shit!... Fangin' mental __geezer__ _._ " Ah, I knew that voice.

"What the fuck are you doing skulking around down here in __my__ tunnels, Slit."

He pushed back and I released my hold. I knew this one wouldn't fight me, not unless he wanted worse scars on his ugly mug.

"Tch. Driver booted me out of the bunk... Again."

Ah, I understood and I didn't have any true reason to reprimand the way he spoke to his elder. I knew this one, that he covered his distress in a piss-poor attitude. I could hear him shifting one foot to the other, waiting for permission. Lately, it was more often than not that either Slit or Nux wandered down to my crew's kip looking for somewhere to bed down away from their partner. They were fighting and I sympathized. Often, when a driver or lancer is approaching the end of his half-life, the pair argue. They rage against the looming end of their bond as if the struggle could prolong the time they had. It won't.

"Alright. Come on. You'll fill the spot Gizzard left open, what with being in the sick ward."

I grabbed him at the elbow and towed him along since he would get lost without the guidance through the maze of the lower levels. He and his driver had a bunk up in the barracks. They'd fought for it and won it. I'd been there in the fury pits the day they earned their right to hole in the wall with a skinny mattress stuffed into it.

"Heard you an' your new lancer have just about had the shits of each other." He said dryly. I really didn't feel conversational.

"S'normal shit. The pup stepped over the line. Had to whack him. Ain't gonna be a lancer fir much longer, though. Groomin' him to become a driver."

"Heh, you really think __Chug__ would be any better at driving than he is at fumbling thunder sticks?"

Slit always trash-talked on his fellow lancers, acting like he was the best of the bunch. That gray on his forehead was still fresh by my count. Nothing but a pup with more rank than he had any right to. "You know, I __could__ just let you freeze your ass off in the tunnels,"

He was quiet after I threatened to abandon him in the middle of the corridor. Soon, I was turning the corner into the kip. A torch was still lit. The custom among our group was that the fire doesn't go out until everyone is present and has their boots off. With Ike and Gizz spending the night up with the Organic and his assistants, it would burn through the night.

I pulled Slit further into the swamp of lying bodies and gave him a push. "Find a spot. Stay away from Shock and Lug. They're liable to wake up swingin'... Usual stuff, been trying to kill each other again."

He leveled a grunt and started doing the awkward dance across the floor made of arms and legs to get to an open space between Bolts and the twins. He was still slapped twice by boys who didn't appreciate having their fingers stepped on.

I unlaced my boots and tossed them into the pile of many others before making my way up to my spot. Chug was facing the wall, curled up and skin prickled with the evening chill. I sat leaning over the edge to do my nightly head count. Two, four, six, eight, plus Slit, nine and all of the blackthumb pups who'd prefer to bed down near us boys they knew well rather than the dens where most ankle biters slept. There were some older ones among the piles of youngin's tonight. Brats at the end of puphood who always seem to appear when we lost one or more of our own. They sought to be chosen for training, to rise from among the unranked and fill the gaps in our crew. Too bad for them. I had already made my choice inside my head. Sump, Tread, Stroke, and Harp would be lifted up from youth and become our four new greenhorns.

Sleep evaded me for some time. Long enough to experience further guilt, throw the grimy sheet I kept up here over Chug and turn to keep my back flush against his so that he stayed somewhat warm.

I was nearly at the threshold of slumber when I felt Chug roll over and crush himself against me. Had to arch away a little. Those lumps on my spine were somewhat sensitive and his noggin was like a rock grinding into them. Next, I felt his fingers tracing the exhaust manifolds Tank had etched into my back when we were young and eager to impress our elders. Oh, that was so long ago.

"What are you doin'? Ah, if you're lookin' for a rootin' you're feeling up the wrong tats this time. Go bother Fork if you want that."

"No... No. Sorry mate. I just- What did I do? Why're you so angry with me?"

"Veeight. You still whimpering about earlier pup? M'not pissed at __you__." Dumb child, he was just looking for reassurance. Rust, if it weren't for Tank and his pitiful habits I'd never have gotten myself saddled with this kid. I couldn't just let him be paired off with some other driver, not after listening to him beg to ride on the car I was rebuilding after losing my lancer. It's just... So, so tangled and screwed up.

He made a noise and sighed slowly. It was like the hiss of air being let out of a tire, a load of pressure being spewed out.

"Are you... trying to get rid of me?"

Fuck. I rolled over and threw my arm over the little idiot's shoulder. "No. For Joe's sake... S'just hard lookin' at you is all."

"Why? I mean. I ain't doing that bad hurling thunder sticks. I'm I? Is that why you want me to try drivin'? Why you can't look me in the eye? I'll get better! I promise! I just need more time!"

"Nah. Shut it before you wake everyone. I ain't tryin' to drop ya. You do okay at poppin' Buzzards and raiders. It's just. I think maybe... You might be Tank's pup."

He pulled back, eyes wide and incredulous. " _ _What__?"

I nodded a bit. "You heard what I said, boy."

"How. I mean... How can that be?"

"Tch, you ever look at your own reflection? Got the same eyes. One brown, one blue. An' your face. You got the same face as him."

"Thought it was just coincidence. Right? I mean. There ain't no girls among us, 'cept Furiosa an' Die... And we ain't allowed to fraternize with wetcheds so-"

"He did... Broke the rules. Tank was rootin' with some wretched girl. The number of days fits. Know why he had all them scars on his back? Cause he got caught. Got whipped bloody and stupid over the girl he was sneaking out to see. I think she mighta been your mother. And Tank mighta sired you. That's why he lost his shit when he saw your face among the uglies below. Cause you were the proper age, an' you looked like him... Look like her too a lil' bit."

He was quiet. Never really wanted to say all this shit to him but how much time could I possibly have left? I was the Legendary Boy of supreme luck but luck has to run out sometime. With the lumps growing on me, it couldn't be long. I felt okay but that could honestly just be denial or something. He needed to know the truth before I went the way of burning out or dying historic. One could only hope for the latter. He still hadn't said a word before I found more to say myself.

"It's hard lookin' at you because I keep seeing Tank every time I do. You gotta understand that. An' I can't let you die like him. I want you to become a driver... Plus, I'm old. I'm gonna kick this rust-bucket an' go off to Valhalla someday. Somebody is gonna have to keep an eye on these idiots once I'm gone. Right?"

The boy said not another word for several breaths. His head was probably humming like an overworked motor. When he finally opened his mouth, what he said was not something I expected at all.

"We lost Zinny and Wingnut. You're gonna have those weird dreams if you don't do the cut thing before you sleep."

He was right. They weren't really dreams, though, more like half recollections of an old woman whose job it was to put the dead to rest. That was from before I came here, even further back in time before I stood among the wretched.

"Yeah. Here. You do it." I dug around in my pocket until I found a dirk and its sheath for Chug to use.

"Where at. You're running out of room for more cuts on your arms."

"Just find a spot on my back then," I instructed as I sat up. I could feel how unsteady his hands were. "Did you ever go to get that top up?"

I suppressed hiss as he made the first shallow slice. "Well... No. Didn't feel like it."

"You know better than to put something like that off Chug. You know your blood ain't right. You'll burn out if you don't get your donor fuel regular like."

"Yeah but..." He trailed off as we turned our heads to observe a new interloper. It was Nux, how he managed to find his way down here in the dark I'll never know. He was here for Slit, kicking at his foot to rouse him.

I listened to them argue in whispers. Slit refused to get up, Nux wanted him to come back to their bunks but refused to offer an apology. After a while, the driver gave up and squeezed himself in between Bolts and his lancer. Apparently they were both going to bed down here. If they kept this shit up they were going to lose their bunk.

I looked back at my own lancer as he finished the second cut. "First thing in the morning, I'm taking you up for a bloodbag. No buts. Got it?"

"Yeah. Alright."

END OF ACT 1

* * *

 _ **I had to go back and make some minor changes to ages and such because to me all of the war boys in the film looked SO young although many may have been pushing thirty. I looked up a great deal of the actors and found that I misjudged their ages by a lot. Apparently, white costume paint and too much black eye shadow makes everyone look between sixteen and twenty one. Plus, Josh Helman (Slit) and Nick Hoult (Nux) are blue eyed and baby faced and they were the two War Boys who got the most screen time. It's easy to underestimate the age of the whole army when you're stuck staring at those two. I'll go back and amend for my mistakes by changing how old some of the boys are, most notably Notch. He'll be somewhere in his early forties now. Ike is trailing just behind him in his late thirties.**_


End file.
